Santa Ana Wind, Part 1, Tommy
by Serialgal
Summary: The Eppes brothers face the Moran brothers in a life and death struggle. The brothers deal with escaped convict, Tommy Moran.
1. Chapter 1

**Santa Ana Wind**

_The Eppes brothers face the Moran brothers in a life and death struggle. _

_**A/N and disclaimers: **__I started writing this story back in October. It was inspired by the real-life wildfires that occurred in California in October and November. I had twenty-six chapters written and most of the rest of the story plotted out when the episode __Breaking__Point__ aired. I mention that because this story has many similar themes, including a scene where Charlie is on television, and gets chastised for it. I couldn't address these topics without acknowledging what happened in Breaking Point, so I went back through and added several references to the episode. If you haven't seen that episode yet for some reason, I'm warning you in advance- there are a lot of spoilers in this fic. There are also some references to Sniper Zero._

_My deepest thanks to my fantastic betas – Alice 1 and FraidyCat. I published my first story about one year ago. During the year, I've written eight stories, 138 chapters, and 404,921 words – and Alice 1 has beta'd nearly every one of them. She is selfless, a fantastic person, and personally devoted to the development of writers of any ability. Aspiring writers, be sure to check out the forum she has started, Calling All Authors. FraidyCat is a master of grammar; and this story has benefited greatly from the skilful touch of her paws. With these two beta-ing the story, you can bet any errors are my own. _

_And now for the disclaimers. I do not own Numb3rs or the characters, but I do claim rights to original storylines and OC's. This disclaimer applies to every chapter in this story._

_Several points concerning the description of the fires and their effects were taken from real life. The location of them is the roughly the same, although I took some liberties with the exact sites of the blazes. The places are all real, but the descriptions have also been modified a bit to fit the story._

**Chapter One**

A gust of wind buffeted the blue Prius, and Charlie tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Dust kicked across the highway, and a plastic grocery bag writhed through the air like a thing possessed. The radio channel was fading, and he flicked through stations a bit abstractedly, his eyes on the highway in front of him, until he found another news station. This one was out of Santa Barbara. He was definitely getting closer. The horizon had turned from blue to hazy, sickly tan; no doubt from the wildfires near Santa Clarita.

He glanced in his rearview mirror a bit nervously. The vehicle behind him was following a little too closely, and it made Charlie uncomfortable. Just a few weeks before, he'd been the target of some thugs bent on scaring him off a case. They'd run his Prius off the road, and had taken a shot at him before he managed to scramble out the passenger side door, taking refuge in the bushes. His car alarm and the appearance of another motorist had managed to scare them off, but it was far too close a call, and had rattled him more than he cared to admit.

He'd spent the better part of the week in San Francisco at a math symposium, sponsored by a collection of leading colleges and universities. He had gone to represent CalSci as one of the keynote speakers, and in addition, presented a paper entitled 'Constructing Descriptive Algorithms for Subsurface Hydrology.' The level of the symposium was decidedly well above undergrad; it had been stimulating and well organized, and Charlie was disappointed when the organizers had decided to cancel Friday's presentations. Many of the presenters on Friday were relatively local, quite a few from California, and as the wildfires had progressed, the organizers of the symposium had decided, in the interest of safety, that they would cut the conference short, so people could get back home safely. Some of the participants had already gone; students, teachers, and administrators who lived in the areas most threatened by the fires.

Instead of leaving, Charlie had decided to stay overnight Thursday, and go to dinner with some faculty members from Princeton and MIT who were attending the conference, much to his father's dismay. He had called Alan to tell him he would be home earlier than expected on Friday, and instead of being relieved; his father had given him a sales pitch for leaving immediately Thursday night. Charlie hadn't outright refused; instead, he made a case for not driving in the dark, and Alan had reluctantly conceded.

The dinner segued into drinks, and Charlie had gotten to bed late, but even so, was up at four a.m. wide-awake, and had decided to hit the road. He hated to admit it, but all of the publicity over the fires, not to mention his worried father, had him a little uneasy, especially now that three of the blazes lay between him and Los Angeles. The news reports were speculating they might connect in one massive fire, and the thought was a bit unnerving. Most of the area that lay between the Santa Clarita fire and his home in Pasadena was a swath of national forest, perfect for feeding an unchecked monster fire. Even if the firefighters did manage to keep the three blazes separated, Charlie knew they were already closing roads. If he didn't get through in time, he would have to add hours to his trip.

By the time he'd packed, showered, and checked out, it was 5:00 a.m. It took five hours to drive from San Francisco to L.A., and he was now well down Highway 5, over three-and-half hours into the trip. He could see traffic ahead of him slowing, and groaned aloud as he stepped on his brake, coming to a stop at the end of a line of traffic that stretched as far as the eye could see. He punched up the volume on the radio, and the announcer's voice filled the car.

"…_right, and the situation is only getting worse. There are now reports that over 300,000 people have been evacuated due to these fires, including the huge blaze raging in San Diego. Strong Santa Ana winds are feeding the blazes; and the weather reports predict no relief for the next several days. In our local area, we now have reports that Highway 5 is closed at state route 99, and traffic south is being diverted through Bakersfield west…"_

Charlie moaned and closed his eyes, and let his head drop against the headrest. He was too late – Highway 5 had already been shut down. The resulting detour would take him all the way over toward San Bernardino, unless he could come up with a back route. That meant adding at least three hours to his trip, not including the time he would spend in traffic. Over 300,000 people were being evacuated, and he swore most of them were sitting in the line in front of him. He rubbed his face wearily; the lack of sleep from the night before was starting to make itself felt. The announcer had switched over to one of the radio station's field reporters.

"_Kyle, can you give us an update?_"

Kyle came on. The wind-deadening microphone was blocking out most of the noise of the wind, but Kyle's voice was elevated to a half-shout, which indicated to Charlie that he could barely hear himself. "_Yes, I'm on site at the Santa Clarita fire with Fire Marshall Jeff Patterson. Jeff, how's it going out here?_"

"_It's been tough going," _the man responded_. "Ordinarily, we would expect to have a fire such as this at least fifty percent contained at this point. We are currently at ten percent, and holding. These wind gusts are ferocious and constantly changing direction, and we're having a real tough time predicting where the flare ups will be…"_

The rest of the words were lost on Charlie, his face went blank, and he stared, eyes wide and unseeing, at the vehicle in front of him, as fluid dynamic equations materialized in his head. Velocity changes due to wind shear, predictive models based on wind direction and speed…'I can help them,' he thought suddenly, with conviction. He sat up straight in his seat and peered down the road. The pull-off lane to the right looked open, and he eased the Prius into it and began passing the stalled motorists, ignoring their suspicious, angry looks.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don ran a hand through his hair, and looked at his team in the conference room. "Okay, who do we have to put on this?" They stared back at him uncertainly, and Megan raised an eyebrow. Don repeated the question, a bit of irritation creeping into his voice. "Who do we have to put on this – Wilkerson?"

Colby shook his head. "He running checks on pawn shops for the 5th street killings."

"How about Johnson?"

David and Megan exchanged a glance. "She's running down prescriptions written by Dr. Barani, looking for fakes," said Megan. "Let me save you the trouble. Everyone's booked right now – it's gonna have to wait, Don."

Don shook his head with a look of disgust, and rubbed his forehead. The fires were killing them. The blazes had drawn every ounce of manpower that could be spared. When the small outlying towns exhausted their volunteer firefighters, the police in those areas stepped in to help. As a result, LAPD had reassigned men, trying to cover the suburbs as well as the city, and had offloaded some of their bigger cases to the FBI – cases that they might ordinarily have fought over with the feds for jurisdiction were suddenly hot potatoes, as the manpower crunch worsened. To make it worse, the FBI was in charge of investigating the fires themselves, for signs of arson. Don's people had been working double shifts all week, and they were still running short of resources.

In addition to gang killings on 5th street, a death by overdose which led back to illegal pain prescriptions written by a Dr. Barani, and the most recent case, two convenience store killings that appeared to be related, Don's team was following what was potentially their biggest case – information, so far unsubstantiated, on a huge ring of meth labs in the area.

He looked at David. "We've got to get a presence down at the convenience store and take statements. I'm gonna have to pull you off the meth case, at least for that much."

David nodded. "No problem," he said, as he rose, "I'm on it."

"Don't forget – we're supposed to be out at Lake Arrowhead this afternoon, to meet with the arson team," Don called after him, and David gave him a quick nod, as he walked away. Don watched him for a moment. David had seemed to have a short fuse during the weeks that Colby had been in custody, but lately the two of them had seemed to find some equilibrium, a hint of the camaraderie they'd once had.

Don couldn't say he had been any more congenial; the long hours, little sleep, and the demise of his relationship with Liz had left him in a permanent foul mood. And then there had been the incident with Charlie a few weeks ago, which still provoked an uncomfortable feeling in Don every time he thought about it. Of course, the current situation was enough to try everyone's patience. "All right," said Don, rising wearily himself, and the rest of them stirred and gathered their files. "Let's get on it."

He paused for a minute in front of the television that had been set up in the bullpen, watching the CNN broadcast. The fires had seemed to create a siege mentality; the whole state of California was following the reports. Real life had been put on hold for hundreds of thousands of people, and the rest of them were being swept up in it too, even if their homes or businesses weren't being threatened. Don watched the raging inferno that was outside of Santa Clarita, and shook his head. It seemed the situation was getting worse, instead of better.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Dillon Moran leaned forward in his desk, and eyed his brother, Sean, furiously. "You what?"

Sean grinned, revealing the rotting gums and loose teeth of a meth addict. "I got it all set up. We're springin' Tommy today." He licked his lips a little nervously, and spoke defensively. "It's Tommy, man, he's our brother. And we've got a chance we'd never get otherwise. We couldn't let him rot in there for eight years."

Dillon's eyes snapped with anger, and he leaned back in his chair, trying to control his rage. "We talked about this; he'd have been out in three with good behavior."

Privately Dillon felt that three years without access to the drugs his brother was addicted to would do him a world of good, but he would never voice that aloud, at least in front of Sean. Much to Dillon's disappointment, both of his brothers were liabilities, drug addicts – neither of them much of an asset to the businesses he ran, legal or otherwise. He loved them though, regardless of their flaws, and he had to admit that Sean, in spite of his addiction, was cunning. They were family; close-knit, Irish family, with a tie forged in the rough streets of Philadelphia. As the oldest Moran, when his mother died, Dillon had vowed to her he would watch out for them. He looked at Sean. "What are you going to do with him when you get him?"

"We'll hide him for a while, get him a new identity, and then maybe he can go back to Philly and work stuff for us out there. Little stuff, legal stuff, you know, the car stuff, the restaurants. The cops'll look hard for a while, then they'll quit. It's not like he's no murderer or nuthin.'"

Dillon sat back, sighing, and shook his head. "Seanie-boy, you should have come to me first. You're putting more than yourself at risk here. Whatever you do, you can't let it come back to you, to me."

Sean nodded vigorously, nervously. "I set it up with an outside guy, to contact the prison guards, I used my own money, honest. There's no way anyone could trace it back to the business – they'd have a hard time tracin' it back to me." He grinned, revealing a gap in his teeth. "You'll see. It's gonna work great." He cast a sideways look at Dillon, full of guile. "Although maybe, down the road, when he's safe and things die down, you could maybe chip in a little? I mean, it's Tommy."

Dillon's eyes narrowed; and he looked at Sean over tented fingers. "We'll see. I'd better not catch even a whiff of this near the business, Sean."

Sean swallowed, as he took in the imposing figure across from him. "Not to worry, Dillon. I've got it under control."

Dillon nodded, and his heart softened a bit. They were talking about their baby brother, after all. "Okay, Sean." He stood, and Sean read the unspoken invitation and moved to embrace him. Dillon's eyes misted with affection, as he wrapped his arms around his younger brother and gave him a hearty thump on the back. As maddening as his brothers were, he loved them both, with the deep fierce, proud love of the Irish. "Good for you, to watch out for your brother," he murmured. "Good for you."

He watched silently as Sean left the room; then reached for the phone. "Lenny," he spoke quietly into the receiver. "I've got a job for you."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Charlie made it nearly to the point where Route 99 intersected Highway 5 before he was stopped. Two state patrol cars were positioned across Highway 5, their lights flashing, and the officers were waving the line of traffic off onto the exit for Route 9, toward Bakersfield. Confused motorists had their windows down, asking which way to go from there to get to L.A., which slowed the progress considerably. One Good Samaritan finally pulled his car to the side, and got out with a hand-lettered piece of poster board that read:

99 North to Bakersfield

58 West toward San Bernardino

15 South to L.A.

L.A. is 3 Hours from Bakersfield

He showed it to one of the officers, who nodded, and the young man ran over to the side of the road and pounded a stake into the ground, then tacked the sign to it. As motorists began to reach the sign, the flow of cars began to move just a bit more quickly.

Charlie guided the Prius forward in the pull-off lane, and as he got toward the front of the line one of the CHPs strode forward, his hand up. Charlie dutifully halted and rolled down his window. "I need to get to the Santa Clarita command center," he said, wincing as a gust of wind blew dust in his eyes.

"I need to see some ID. Do you have clearance?" said the trooper.

Charlie wiped his eyes, using the pause to think. He had the feeling the man wouldn't let him through if he didn't stretch the truth, at least a little. He fumbled in his glove box and pulled out his FBI consultant ID. "I'm investigating the Santa Clarita fire," he said, and felt a sudden twinge of uneasiness, even as he said it. It was possible Don's superiors might not approve of extracurricular activities that had been accessed by the flash of an FBI badge, even if those activities were in the public interest.

The trooper nodded, and handed his ID back to him, pointing down the road. "Go right on down Highway 5 about five miles. They've got a command post set up – you can't miss it."

"Thanks," Charlie nodded, and waved the ID at him a bit awkwardly, then rolled up the window again, as another gust blasted the car. Too late now – he was committed. Surely, no one could fault him for trying to help. A few minutes later, he was at the command center. He pulled his laptop out of the car, and slung the strap over his shoulder. A gust hit him as he walked over to a group of firefighters, almost knocking him off his feet. '_That one had to be at least seventy miles an hour_,' he thought. News crews were on the scene, recording. The wind nearly pitched one of the cameras on its side, and the cameraman grabbed it just in time.

The men were looking at him curiously, and he had to yell at them over the breeze. "I need to speak to the guy in charge!"

One of them stepped forward. He was a big man –they all looked big, although Charlie realized their bulky fire gear was part of the reason for that. "Jack Patterson – I'm in charge. Who are you?"

Charlie stuck out his hand. "I'm Charles Eppes. I consult for the FBI – doing mathematical analysis. No one sent me here – I was traveling through and it just occurred to me I could probably help you with some analysis. I think I can give you a way to know how to respond when the wind changes – either speed or direction." He handed Patterson his ID. "If you need a reference, you can call my brother – he's SAC of the L.A. office."

Patterson looked at the ID, then handed it back. "Truthfully, we'll use any help we can get. We have a ton of volunteers already out here. Although I'm not sure what you have in mind."

"I need a place to set up my computer," Charlie replied loudly over the wind – their entire conversation was being held at a half-yell. "I need access to your map of the fire, and the weather reports you've been getting."

Patterson pointed to the mobile home that was functioning as the command center. "You can set up in there. They can download the map for you, get the weather info –we're already pulling it in on our computers. How long will it take you?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure – if you've already got all that on the computer; two or three hours maybe – I'll work as fast as I can."

Patterson nodded, and the young man set off for the trailer, as a CNN reporter headed in his direction. He'd been working with her throughout the week, and not only was she gorgeous; she was extremely personable. Much to his delight, they'd progressed to a first-name basis. "Hey, Meg."

"Hi, Jack. We're going to run another broadcast later this afternoon," she said, the wind whipping her honey-colored hair. "I know you signed a waiver, but most of it will probably be live, so I need to ask you again if there's anything on the site that you don't want on tape."

He smiled at her. "No, it's still okay. Actually, your broadcasts are helping raise public support and awareness – we really appreciate it."

She dimpled, and her gaze shifted to the young man entering the trailer. "Who was the guy in the white shirt?"

Patterson followed her glance. "Oh, he's a consultant for the FBI, some kind of math professor. He's analyzing wind patterns and their effect on the fire for us."

She nodded. It was public knowledge that the FBI was out at the blaze sites, investigating them for arson. "Okay, we're going to get a few background shots, and then you and I can line up for the interview at around noon. See ya later," she tossed that over her shoulder with a flirtatious grin, and Patterson grinned back.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan sighed and looked at his watch. It was a slow day, and he'd taken off from work at noon, expecting that Charlie would have been home at around ten a.m. It was now after one, and not only was his youngest son not home yet, he couldn't reach him on his cell phone. He'd turned on the news, flipping from channel to channel, trying to see if there was anything on road conditions, or delays. He looked at the phone again, hesitating. He hated to bother Don at work, but Charlie was three hours late. Maybe he'd called Don while Alan was at work.

He dialed and listened to it ring, watching the CNN broadcast idly. "Don – hey, I'm sorry to bother you at work, but did you hear from Charlie?"

Don stepped away from the conversation he was having with Megan and Colby, and spoke into his cell phone. "No, Dad, why?"

Alan sighed with just a hint of frustration, wishing not for the first time that his youngest would be a bit more considerate. "He was supposed to be home at ten this morning – he called me at six before I left for work, said he was already on the road. He's still not here, and I can't get him on his cell phone."

Don grimaced slightly, trying to ignore the little flip in his gut. Charlie had been attacked just a few weeks earlier, by some thugs who had forced him off the road and shot at him because of his work on the Bonnie Parks case. He'd nearly been killed, and the realization had created a general uneasiness in Don ever since then. He hadn't been crazy about Charlie driving by himself up to San Francisco and back, even though the case was over and Richard Taylor, the man behind the abduction, had been arrested. "I don't what to tell you-"

"Hey, there's Charlie!"

Don broke off and swiveled toward the elevator at Colby's exclamation, and then realized that Colby was pointing to the television. At the same time, he heard Alan's muffled exclamation on the other end.

"Dad, he's on TV."

"I know; I see him."

They both watched with phones to their ears, and several of the agents meandered over to the television. A CNN reporter stood facing the camera, as Charlie and several firefighters clustered in the background. The men were holding a map down on the hood of a pickup, and Charlie was talking to them animatedly, pointing at the map, his white buttoned shirt rolled up at the sleeves, flapping in the wind. His dark curls whipped around his face, and Don could tell he was shouting to the men over the wind, although they were too far in the background to hear what he was saying.

The reporter indicated the group behind her. "It is an all out war on the Santa Clarita fire," she said into her microphone. "The Fire Marshall here has enlisted help from all angles, including the high level consultant you see behind me. I have been told the FBI is now analyzing these fires for the possibility of arson. Clearly, you can see this is serious business." She moved over a step or two toward the Fire Marshall, and began to interview him. The words were lost on Don however; his father's voice came over the line, sharply.

"You didn't tell me you pulled him in on your investigation. Does he really need to be out in the field so soon, after what just happened?"

A flash of irritation crossed Don's face. "No, Dad, I didn't pull him in. I haven't even talked to Charlie since last Sunday. I don't know what he's doing out there." He scowled at the television. Had Charlie decided to consult on the arson investigation without telling him? One thing was certain; he was going to make darned sure he found out. As lead agent on the L.A. and Malibu fires, he should have been told; in fact, he was required to authorize fieldwork for consultants, and they were expected to sign the paperwork, which included a waiver limiting FBI liability. In Charlie's case, none of that paperwork had crossed his desk; he knew with certainty.

He frowned, hoping Wright, the Assistant Director, wasn't watching the broadcast. Charlie had gotten sideways with the A.D. on the Parks case by giving out information in a television interview with a reporter. Don was devoutly glad his brother was only in the background in this report, and not behind a microphone. Still, he shouldn't be there at all – he wasn't cleared. "Look, Dad, at least you know where he is, and that he's okay. I'll try to get hold of someone out there, and have him call me, okay?"

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The interview over, Fire Marshall Jack Patterson stepped away from the reporter and moved over to the truck. The consultant had only been there three hours, and apparently had a report. He nodded as the young man approached him.

Charlie spoke loudly to him over the wind. "I was just telling your men – the map is color-coded according to wind direction. If the wind shifts, it shows you which area will become the hot spot, and next to it in minutes is how long you have to get your people over to that area, depending on the wind speed. Some of it is intuitive, but some of it isn't – this should help you get a bit of a jump on things when the wind changes."

Patterson looked at the map appreciatively, nodding. "That's great – hey, I was talking to the Mike Jersich, out at the Lake Arrowhead fire – he was wondering if you could do the same thing for them. I figured you were probably going to be driving past that area, so I told him I'd ask."

Charlie was flushed with satisfaction at being able to help, and he nodded with enthusiasm. "Sure, no problem – you're right, with the detour I'll be going right by there. I should see who again – Mike …?"

"Jersich. J E R S I C H. He's the fire marshal in charge of the north side of the Lake Arrowhead fire." Charlie nodded, and picked up his laptop, which had been sitting at his feet, and slung it over his shoulder. Patterson stuck out a hand. "Thanks for the help. Oh – and your brother called. He wants you to call him."

"Okay," said Charlie grasping his hand. He gave a grin and a wave to the other firefighters. "No problem." He strode back toward the Prius, feeling in his back pocket for his cell phone. _Must have left it in the car._

He pulled the car door shut and just sat for a minute. It was a relief to be out of that infernal wind. He flipped his cell phone open with a smile – the work was satisfying, energizing; he had seen the efforts of the firefighters and the many volunteers on television and it felt good to be out here helping them. He glanced at the time on his phone as he opened it– wow, 1:30 already. Four calls from Dad, one from Don. Don's call was the last one, and the number automatically came up. Charlie hit dial as he started the car. It rang only once, and he heard his brother's voice.

"Charlie."

"Hey Don, what's up?" He drove as he talked, heading back toward the intersection for Route 99.

"I saw you on CNN – what are you doing out at Santa Clarita?"

Charlie laughed a little nervously. "CNN, are you serious?" He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Yeah, I'm serious," Don replied irritably. "Don't act like you didn't know it. You should know better after what happened with your last interview."

"But I didn't interview with anyone," Charlie protested. "I didn't even know they were filming me."

"Right, so the reporter must be psychic, to peg you as an FBI consultant. But that's not what I'm concerned about. You aren't sanctioned for fieldwork on that case. Neither you nor the arson team cleared your being there with me. I'm accountable for everyone out in the field, Charlie. You know you have to authorize your consulting work through this office, _especially_ if you're going to be in the field."

Charlie's smile faded, and his eyes flashed with a hint of anger. "I wasn't consulting for the FBI." He pulled the Prius to the end of the roadblock and stopped to wait his turn, watching the troopers wave traffic from Route 99 onto Highway 5 north. Many of those people were running from the fire, he realized, he could see the vehicles packed with belongings, the tense faces. A young boy looked out a car window forlornly, clutching a small dog.

"Then what in the hell were you doing?" Don demanded. He knew he was being a little harsh, but he didn't care. It had been a long week, he was tired, and he didn't need to be chasing down a younger brother who, as usual, had blissfully disregarded the rules.

"I was trying to help." Charlie spoke through clenched teeth, as the troopers waved him onto Route 99 toward Bakersfield, ahead of the traffic waiting in the other lane. One of the officers raised an eyebrow at Charlie's cell phone, and he pulled it down from his ear, guiltily; then put it up again as soon as he'd passed. "I was sitting in traffic on Highway 5, and it occurred to me I could do some analysis that would help them manage the fire. I pulled off and volunteered, and the fire marshal accepted. I didn't even know there was FBI on the site." He delivered a shot back. "At least some of us are out here doing something."

Don's jaw worked, but he bit back his anger at the comment. "Look, Dad's worried sick about you. Give him a call, and don't go being a hero. Just get home." He flipped his phone shut with a snap. Charlie's last verbal jab reverberated in his head, and he slammed a folder down hard on his desk, ignoring Megan's and Colby's raised eyebrows.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sean Moran stuffed some clothing in the duffel, watching the television broadcast with narrowed eyes. He listened carefully, trying to get information on which roads where open around Lake Arrowhead, but his attention was completely captured as the FBI was mentioned. Feds, the woman reporter said. Now they had feds investigating for arson. Damn.

No matter, he thought to himself. They'd never find who set it. He and his man had been careful.

The Malibu and San Diego fires were what had given him the idea. A few days ago, the governor had come on television, giving an interview on a local L.A. station, discussing potential sources of resources, and had mentioned the possibility of using prisoners from lower security prisons to work the fire lines. Sean had immediately thought of his younger brother, Tommy, serving time for drug dealing. If Tommy could get on a work detail like that, Sean could find a way to get him out of there, he was sure of it. However, that was only_ if_ the governor had a bad enough resource problem that he'd have to use prisoners. One way to make sure of that, Sean had thought. Set a couple more fires.

So he did. He picked a Latino gang member he knew named Ramon, someone not connected with Dillon's businesses, and they'd set the Santa Clarita and Lake Arrowhead fires in the middle of the night. Sean had selected them because they were both out in remote areas. They'd be a lot more likely to send prisoners out there to work than to Malibu. The rich Hollywood snots would probably have a fit if they found lowlife prisoners were working in their neighborhoods.

For a couple of days, nothing happened. The state called in the National Guard to help, and Sean cursed, figuring his efforts were going to be for naught. Then yesterday, he'd gotten a call from Jesse Alvarez, the man Sean had chosen as a contact. They were sending the prisoners out, Jesse had told him. They were going to dig trenches out by Lake Arrowhead.

Sean knew enough to conceal his connection with the plan. The man he'd picked as a go-between, Jesse Alvarez, was someone he knew he could trust. Jesse had never had dealings with Dillon, only Sean and Tommy. He had Jesse contact two of the prison guards, men who he knew could be bought, because they owed the bookies money. Jesse told them there was cash in it for them, if they could look the other way and let Tommy conveniently slip away when they were out on the line. Jesse had set it all up with them, and the fires had been raging for two days, when the governor finally decided to send out the prisoners.

Sean finished his packing. He would pick Tommy up out on the road; he had clothes for him to change into. He threw binoculars into the bag, and slung on a jacket, then tucked his pistol into his shoulder holster, and tossed down a hit of meth. In a couple of hours, Tommy, his baby brother, would be a free man. He almost had a hand on the doorknob when he heard the knock. He peered out through the view hole, and frowned. His stepbrother, Lenny Angelo, was standing, with his trademark smirk, on the other side. What in the hell was he doing here? He opened the door. "Lenny, hey man, I was just on my way out."

Lenny grinned, his dark brown eyes sharp in a sharp face, adorned with a hooked nose. His Philadelphia accent was thick. "I know. Dillon tole me. I'm s'posed to go wid you."

Sean felt a sharp jerk of frustration and rage in his chest. What in the hell was this? Dillon didn't trust him? He'd be damned, though; if he would let Lenny know he was upset. He shrugged indifferently, and nodded at his half-brother. "Okay, sure. Let's go. You drive."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie listened with mounting anger to his brother. Don's irate voice sounded in the receiver. '_Look, Dad's worried sick about you. Give him a call, and don't go being a hero. Just get home.'_

The phone clicked off before he could reply, and he shut it with irritation. "Geez, what a grouch," he muttered. His brother had effectively ruined his sense of euphoria.

He sighed, and picked up the cell phone and dialed his father. Busy. Probably talking to Don, getting his side of the story. Voicemail came on, and Charlie left a message. "Dad, just wanted to let you know I'm okay, and I'm on the road again, near Bakersfield. Don't wait dinner for me – I'll probably be late – I'm going to stop off at Lake Arrowhead for a few hours. Don't worry about me; I won't be working anywhere close to the fires. Talk to you later." He tried hard to keep the irritation out of his voice, but he knew it was there.

He shut the phone, then as an afterthought, turned it off. He didn't need a lecture from his father, too. There were hundreds of people in the fight against the fires; trying to help in any way they could. There was no reason why he shouldn't join them.

He stopped for gas and a candy bar outside Bakersfield. He was hoping for something a little more substantial, but the fast food places were swamped and the gas station was out of nearly everything that resembled a sandwich. He washed the poor substitute for a meal down with a bottle of water as he pulled back into the long line of traffic. By the time he made it to the turn off for Lake Arrowhead, he was tired, hungry, and not nearly as eager as he'd been that morning. At Cajon Junction, he pulled off onto Route 138, where he showed his credentials to an officer at the checkpoint. Route 138 would come down on the north side of the fire, and as he made his way toward the command post, he felt some of his resolve return. The Lake Arrowhead fire was a monster- much larger than Santa Clarita was; and he could see the huge pall of smoke to his south. The magnitude of it suddenly hit him – if he could do anything, no matter how small, to help, then by God, he was going to do it.

The command post was set up a little west of the town of Crestline, and Charlie found Mike Jersich easily. Jersich looked exhausted, and so grateful to see him that Charlie's sense of purpose increased. In spite of the larger area to cover, Charlie was able to use some of the equations he had devised for the Santa Clarita fire, and it only took two hours before he had results, and a marked-up map.

He met with Jersich and his team leaders, and explained how the map worked. Jersich nodded in appreciation, but then his brow furrowed. "It should be good for awhile," he said, "but until we completely contain the fire, the borders will be constantly changing. That will change the map."

Charlie nodded. "I know. I downloaded the programming for you, and showed one of your techs how to use it to generate a new map. He has my number if he has questions."

Jersich clasped his hand. "We owe you a big thanks – we're really strapped out here for resources – anything that will make us more efficient is a huge help. You probably ought to hit the road – you'll be taking Route 18 south to get out of here – it runs past the fire. It's okay for now, but the way the wind is coming, we're probably going to have to close it soon. We're going to take one last group down it when it closes, flanked by patrol cars – they'll be leaving in less than a half hour. You might want to make sure you're in that group, or you're going to have to go all the way back north on 138."

Charlie nodded, and picked up his computer bag. "Okay, thanks. Your tech has my card – call me if you need anything."

He looked around as he walked back to his car; there were people moving everywhere, firefighters, volunteers with food and water, reporters, a few state troopers; the place was a zoo. They were set up on the edge of a section of fire that had been contained, and to Charlie's left he could see the blackened terrain stretch away, as far as the eye could see. Over the horizon hung the smoke, ominous, threatening.

He could see part of the parking area now; there were still vehicles coming in, he noted, thinking absently that one of them looked familiar, when a voice called his name. "Hey Charlie!"

He turned to see a face he knew - George – what was his last name – he'd worked with him on an arson case for Don. He searched his memory, as George, wearing an FBI windbreaker, trotted up. '_Thornton_,' he thought, with a mental snap of his fingers. '_George Thornton_.' "Hey, George," he said, extending his hand. "How are you?"

Thornton pumped it vigorously. "Good. We're out here working the arson angle, and we think we've found something. Do you have a minute?"

Charlie hesitated. "Well, I'm not really cleared to consult on this, at least not with the FBI," he hedged.

George persisted. "We've already done the legwork, I just wanted your opinion – should only take a minute. And since when has it been a problem for you to consult for the FBI?"

"It hasn't, it's just, it's field work, and I didn't submit paperwork…," Charlie broke off, realizing how lame he sounded, and gave George a sheepish grin. "Okay, just a quick question, though."

George pointed to a ridge and a hollow in the burned out area, not too far distant. "Okay, a fire like this, driven by wind, usually catches on a peak first, right? See that hollow over there – that's one of the starting points of this blaze."

Charlie followed his finger to the hollow. "It's less likely it would start in the hollow, correct, but not impossible."

George nodded and unfolded a map. "Well, it was only one of the places. There was another hollow, nearby, here, where a blaze was started almost at the same time." He pointed to the map. "This is the direction of the prevailing winds. Winds were not too gusty that night, they settled down a bit as the sun set. So you had more of a steady state condition. What do you think the probability was that the first fire set the second?"

Charlie did some rapid calculations in his head. "Almost zero. The wind direction is wrong, and there was little gusting, so that means little wind shear, and negligible swirling action. Plus it was another hollow, not a peak. Add that into it, and the fact that they both occurred around the same time, and it looks like you might have a purposely set fire."

George slapped him on the arm with a grin. "That's what we thought. We're gonna get the dogs out there to sniff out accelerant to verify. Thanks, man. Just in time, too." His gaze traveled over Charlie's shoulder, and he nodded a greeting. "Agent Eppes."

Charlie stiffened and turned, to see Don and his team behind him. To the average observer, Don's face was expressionless, but Charlie could see that his eyes were black with anger.

Don nodded. "George. Be with you in a minute. Charlie, can I talk to you for a second?"

He clamped a hand on Charlie's arm, none too gently, and pulled him aside.

Colby raised an eyebrow. He exchanged a glance with Megan and David, and they looked back at George.

"So George," said Megan lightly, trying to divert his attention, "what do you have?"

Don pulled Charlie to the side, a few yards away, but out of hearing of his team. His grip was like a vise, and Charlie hissed at him. "You can let go any time now." His bravado wavered at little, as he faced his brother and saw the anger on his face.

Don realized suddenly that he was still gripping Charlie's arm, and immediately released him, running a hand over his face in frustration. "Charlie – what in the heck is this? Do you _want_ me to lose my job?"

Charlie rubbed his arm, with a quick glance towards Don's team. Thankfully, they weren't watching this – they seemed intent on George's map. Maybe too intent. "This is not what it looks like, Don-,"

"Oh, so you're not standing here; good," Don retorted. "I suppose you're in one of Fleinhardt's alternate universes. The last time we talked, you were at Santa Clarita, and I specifically told you to go home."

Charlie was regaining some of his anger. "I'm not one of your agents, Don. As much as you'd like to, you can't order me around, especially when I'm not consulting for you. If you'd bothered to stay on the phone I would have told you I was going to Lake Arrowhead, to do the same thing I did for the fire marshal at Santa Clarita."

Don looked at him skeptically. "The same thing, huh? The thing that didn't include consulting for the FBI. So I guess you weren't working with George when I walked up."

Charlie shook his head, and his voice had just a hint of a plea in it. "I swear, Don, I was on my way out, he just had a quick question-,"

Don's lips tightened. "Forget it, Charlie. I'm tired of the excuses. The fact is, you're here, meeting with FBI personnel, without clearance." His voice changed, and it sounded tired. "Just go on and get out of here. Dad's waiting for you. Go home."

He knew he was being harsh, and he suspected that part of what was driving his reaction was worry, the unsettled feeling he'd had since Charlie had been attacked a few weeks ago. Feeling suddenly a bit guilty, he lifted an arm to put it around Charlie's shoulders, intending to walk with him to his car, and maybe soften his words a bit, but Charlie misinterpreted his movement and stepped back quickly, his jaw set angrily, and Don dropped his arm, looking a bit taken aback.

Charlie turned, and stalked toward the car with as much dignity as he could muster, his face burning with humiliation, his insides twisted with hurt and anger. He couldn't tell which made him feel worse – being treated like a child who couldn't think for himself, being publicly berated, or Don's reaction. Somehow, by trying to do the right thing, he'd managed to infuriate his brother.

Don watched the slight figure trudge away, resentment and defeat apparent in his brother's body language, the slump of his shoulders. He knew he'd been harder on Charlie than he needed to be, and his guilt deepened, which only added to his frustration. Although, he told himself, maybe it was good to be tough on him – maybe next time his brother would pay attention to the rules. God, Charlie drove him crazy sometimes. He rubbed his face, tiredly, with exasperation, and turned back toward his team, who were all watching him, somberly.

They caught his eye and as a group, turned back toward George, trying to pretend they hadn't been watching. Don stepped up behind them to listen, with one more glance toward the parking lot, as the blue Prius pulled out and away.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks for the reviews, folks!_

**Chapter 4**

Charlie pulled out on the side road that led from the command center, and stopped where it joined Route 18. A patrol car was sitting to his left, blocking the way, and a line of cars waited to his right. This apparently was the last group to go south on 18 before it closed. They were stopped, waiting for a few last cars, and Charlie sat there, with an eye on the highway patrol officer, his mind still churning from the argument with his brother.

He had to admit, the fact that he was talking with George when Don walked up hadn't looked very good, and it was true; he had used his FBI ID to gain access to the first fire. However, in spite of appearances, he hadn't been consulting for the FBI, and nothing had happened while he was out here, certainly nothing to merit his brother's irate attitude. _Excessively_ irate, he amended. Don had been out of line; there had been no reason for him to treat him the way he had. It never occurred to him that his brother's reaction had been generated by worry.

Charlie sighed. He'd consulted on the highest security projects, rubbed elbows with some of the top officials in more than one country's government, but Don was the only person on earth who could still make him feel like he was five again. He was so mired in his stew of frustration, he barely noticed the trooper signal him to pull forward, before the officer climbed into his own vehicle.

He pulled in behind the highway patrol car, the other cars fell into line behind them, and they set off, moving south on Route 18. It was two-lane road, and only an occasional car passed them, headed north. Even that ended after they trailed through the roadblock near the little town of Twin Peaks. They were now the only traffic on the road, and they picked up speed.

The smoke was heavier now; most of it was to the east, but a thin haze lay over the road. Charlie knew from his work on the map that it would only be a matter of two hours or so before the fire would be too close to this section of road to allow travel. He frowned, wondering if Don and his team would be done in time to be allowed to go south. If not, they would need to detour north on 138. Both 18 and 138 joined Highway 15/215, which would take them back to L.A., but the detour north on 138 would add almost two hours to the trip. Charlie was sure that wouldn't improve Don's mood. He sighed, and settled morosely in his seat, his eyes on the patrol car in front of him, still wondering how his impulse to help had managed to put him on the wrong side of his brother. Behind him, the caravan stretched, further than he could see.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Tommy Moran felt the buzz in the rolled sleeve of his jumpsuit and turned his head, surveying the scene. Inmates labored on either side; all armed with shovels, digging trenches in an attempt to stop the oncoming fire. He stepped back a little toward the tree line behind him, and retrieved the pre-paid cell phone from his sleeve. Sean's man Alvarez had given it to one of the prison guards yesterday, who had slipped it to Tommy. That guard, Colter, was now watching him, but since he was in on the plan, Tommy didn't care. He just needed to be sure the other inmates didn't see him. He moved over to a tree, pretending to relieve himself, and used it as cover as he answered. "Sean, it's about time, man. You up on the road?"

Sean's voice came from the other end. "_Yeah, I pulled into the trees on a dirt track, about a half mile down. I'm with Lenny_."

"Lenny! What in the hell's that dago doin' here?" Neither Tommy nor Sean bore any love for their half-brother. Lenny was sharp, and Dillon had given him far more responsibility in the family businesses than he had to either Tommy or Sean; a fact that hadn't gone unnoticed. Their resentment was further compounded by the fact that Lenny wasn't even full-blooded Irish; he was half Italian, their mother's son by a first marriage.

"_Never mind about that now. I got the binoculars; I can see you from here_."

Tommy peered around the tree toward the road. The landscape climbed steadily from the vale they were in as it approached the highway, and then upward on the other side. Sean was on the other side, up on the hill, a short distance down, but there was no way Tommy could pick him up amid the trees that lined the road.

"It's a good thing you got here," said Tommy. "The fire's pickin' up; the buses are on their way back to get us. We're runnin' out of time."

"_Then quit jawin' and get movin.' I'll be watchin' the road_."

The phone went dead, and Tommy carefully rolled it back in his sleeve, wishing the jumpsuit had pockets. He looked around the tree and made eye contact with Colter; then looked back at the line. Two of the inmates had straightened and were pretending to rest, but their eyes were on him. He gave them a nod, and they dropped their shovels and sauntered back toward the tree line, lazily. Tommy watched as one of them headed for a tree, and the other made his way over toward the next guard down the line, Binman. Binman was also in on the escape plan; he and Colter had taken the last two guard positions closest to the road.

Tommy took one more look at the inmates on the line, and turned, picking his way through the edge of the trees toward Colter. When he was about three feet away, he stopped.

"Make it look good," said Colter, and with an almost imperceptible nod, Tommy charged him, seizing the automatic rifle that Colter held across his chest. They struggled for minute; then the guard shouted and released his grip. Tommy lifted the butt of the rifle, and as Colter turned away from him, brought it down on the side of his head. It made a sickening thwack, and the guard went down in a heap. Tommy had been trying to hit him lightly, but he'd had to strike hard enough to leave an injury, to keep Colter out of trouble. '_No question about that_,' he thought, looking at the trickle of blood running down the guard's cheek. He only prayed he hadn't hit hard enough to kill the man.

He could hear shouts behind him, and he glanced back to see the other guard, Binman, go down, and then the two men, his cellmates, were charging up the grade behind him, through the trees. Jake Miles and Jackie Zenow, Jazz they called him. Jazz was carrying the other guard's rifle. Sean hadn't planned on them, and Tommy knew he'd be pissed. He knew he could sweet-talk Sean into giving them a lift, though – he could talk his older brothers into almost anything. He turned and started to run as Jake and Jazz reached him, all of them heading for the road. Behind them came shouts and a warning shot from the next guard down on the line.

A half mile away up the hill, Sean looked intently through the binoculars at the action below, frowning. It was taking place among trees, along the edge of a clearing, and he didn't have a clear view, but it looked like there were more inmates involved. Maybe some of them were taking advantage of the distraction to escape. If so, that was on them – he had only one passenger to pick up, and that was Tommy. He nodded to Lenny. "Start the car."

He swung his binoculars up the road; it had been deserted for the past half-hour, and he hoped it would stay that way for a few minutes more. What he saw made him curse aloud. A stream of cars was headed down the road, led by a state highway patrol car. He swung his binoculars back toward Tommy again, and saw him racing up the hill through the trees, along with two other inmates, headed for the road. "Shit," he breathed. "_Shit._"

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

He'd been driving for about twenty minutes, and Charlie punched the radio on, hitting some of the pre-programmed buttons, hoping he was now close enough to L.A. to pick up some of his usual stations. The argument with Don was still in the back of his mind; he hated it when they argued. He had hated it when they were kids, and he still did. Arguments just seemed to be one more piece of evidence that their relationship wasn't what Charlie hoped it would be, and as a result, he was usually the one to apologize first. He despised the fact that he was the first to give in, it made him feel weak, but he hated the tension between them even more. It was a very rare altercation for which he resisted the urge to apologize, and in those cases he either was convinced he was completely right, or he felt that Don was for some reason being unfair.

This situation was both – Don was being unreasonable, and Charlie felt that in spite of appearances, he'd done nothing wrong. Nothing too wrong. Using a federal ID to gain access, okay, that was a little murky, but it was for a good cause, and he'd made it clear he was there on his own time once he got to the man in charge. Even if he had been consulting for the FBI, nothing had happened to him, so the paperwork would be at most a technicality. Plus, Don really had acted like a jerk. No, he sighed to himself, he probably shouldn't give in on this one. Damn.

He had a finger poised over a button, when the patrol car, which was at least five car lengths in front of him, jammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt. The slight distraction the radio had provided left him unsure of how close he was, and he hit his brakes harder than he needed to, stopping at least three car lengths away.

His heart gave an uncomfortable jolt as his eyes shot up to his rearview mirror and he saw the car behind him coming up, too fast. The driver, a young man, managed to stop just in time, and they exchanged a wide-eyed glance in Charlie's rearview mirror, before Charlie looked back to the road. What he saw made his heart, already thumping, leap wildly. The highway patrol officer had stepped out of his car and had his pistol sighted over the open driver's side door at three men who had come up over the embankment. They were wearing prison jumpsuits, and two of them were carrying automatic rifles, which they pointed at the officer.

The officer had been shouting at them, but as they leveled the rifles, he squeezed off a shot, just before a round hit the window glass of his car door. He fell, bouncing sloppily off the frame of the car before collapsing in an awkward pile of limbs, a bright red stain and a gaping hole marking the exit wound in his back.

It all took mere seconds, and Charlie stared frozen with disbelief, then suddenly came to his senses. His head whipped around, searching eyes and scrabbling hands looking, reaching for his cell phone. It was there on the passenger seat, right where he'd thrown it after leaving the message for his father, hours earlier. He seized it with shaking hands, flipped it open, and punched 'on,' cursing himself for turning it off. "Come on, come on," he breathed, waiting for the logo to come up and for the phone to establish contact with the tower. He glanced up and, his heart did a flip in his chest. The three men had stopped to look at the officer, one of them with a cell phone to his ear. Another one stooped and picked up the fallen officer's pistol, and unsnapped the extra clip of ammo from his belt. As Charlie watched, they turned, and began walking toward him.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"_Tommy, what in the hell's goin' on?_" hissed Sean into the phone. "_Who are those guys? And who shot the goddamn trooper?_"

"Jazz shot him," retorted Tommy into the phone, and Jazz, who had heard him, grinned crookedly, raising his rifle in a salute. "We were just gonna give 'em a ride – Jake and Jazz – as far as East L.A., then they were gonna make their own way."

"_Well, you got no ride now,_" barked Sean. "_There's no way I can pick you up in front of all those witnesses. You need to get a car, and get the hell out of there, fast. Get down the road a ways, then Jack and Jazz or whoever-the-hell-they-are can have the car, and I'll pick you up. Move it, now."_ He jumped into the car, and yelled at Lenny. "Let's go, now! Head out of here and go south."

Tommy shut the phone and looked at the other inmates. "My brother said to get a car. He'll meet us down the road." He strode forward to the first car in line, a little blue foreign job, and his eyes narrowed as he saw the cell phone in the driver's hands. He rapped on the driver's side window. "Drop the phone!" He turned toward Jake, handing him the rifle, and taking the officer's pistol from him.

"Tell him to get out," suggested Jake.

Tommy shook his head, heading for the passenger side. "I ain't never driven one these hybrid pieces of crap, have you?" They shook their heads. "Then let him drive. Get in the back. He can be insurance if the cops catch up to us."

He slid into the passenger seat and glared at Charlie, who was staring at him fearfully, the open phone still in his hand. Tommy grabbed the phone and flung it out of the passenger-side door, then slammed it shut, pointing the pistol at Charlie's chest. "I thought I said 'drop the phone,' asshole. Now are you just gonna sit there, or are you gonna drive?"

The phone had landed in the weeds at the side of the road, and it lay there face down, still open, as the Prius pulled away.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. I had the opportunity to drive a Prius for a business trip once. It's not as different as the bad guys make it out to be, but the ignition was a little funky (not a traditional key), and I had to start it twice to believe it was really on. When it's idling it runs on battery alone, and is completely silent. Neat little automobile, but definitely not a race car..._

**Chapter 5**

Don's phone vibrated and he unhooked it from his belt as he trod back through the blackened landscape. George Thornton had taken them down to one of the hollows where he hypothesized the first fire had started, showing them how and where he thought the blaze had begun. The wind had taken the fire away from their current location; the desolation swept away southward, as far as the eye could see. Don flipped open the cell, noting Charlie's number on the screen before he answered. '_Probably calling to apologize_,' he thought.

When they argued, it was typical for his brother to apologize first. When Don was younger, he took it, rather smugly, as a sign he was usually in the right. Now that he was a bit older, he couldn't ignore the uncomfortable feeling that Charlie's willingness to concede defeat might not necessarily be a sign of an inferior position, that just maybe, his brother's reluctance to hold a grudge was based on something else – something more altruistic than winning a mere argument. More uncomfortable than that was the suspicion that by doing so, Charlie somehow came out victorious.

Sometimes, Don continued the argument on principle, just because he hated being controlled. He wasn't sure yet how he felt about this one; he was still angry. Besides that, there was no doubt in this case, he was right. Well, mostly right. George had admitted Charlie tried to avoid answering his question, and that George had talked him into it. Still Charlie was out in the field, flashing a federal ID, without paperwork. Chances were it wouldn't even come to the Bureau's attention. In that case, Don just might offer an olive branch. His response would depend on how much crow Charlie was willing to eat – and maybe on how guilty Don felt over being so abrupt. He put the phone to his ear. "Yeah, Charlie." His tone was gruff, but just a hint conciliatory. There was no response.

Frowning, he looked at the screen – it showed the call had connected – and put the phone back to his ear. He heard something that sounded like a car door slamming, then a whooshing noise – tires on pavement, maybe? "Charlie?"

He paused at the top of the hill, where the charred earth met live grass, and listened intently for a minute. Nothing.

Megan paused next to him. "Bad signal?"

Don shook his head, with one last bemused look at the screen. "Yeah, I guess. It's Charlie's phone. Maybe he hit the call button without realizing it."

She glanced at him. "Everything all right?"

He knew she was referring to his heated discussion with Charlie. At her words, he scowled and for a moment, she thought he was going argue his case or perhaps even tell her it was none of her business, but then the scowl faded a bit, and he sighed. "Yeah, I guess so. It's just that, with what happened a couple of weeks back, well, I'm still a little worried about him. He doesn't need to be running around out here – he could make a wrong turn and end up somewhere he shouldn't be. Plus, it's my ass that'll be on the line if the A.D. finds out he's out in places where he's not authorized to be." He shook his head. "He just doesn't get it."

David and Colby tromped up the slope behind them. "We done?" asked Colby.

Don nodded. "I want to get an updated damage report from Jersich, and we're out of here. If we leave soon, they might let us go back down 18." He headed toward the mobile command center, idly noting the State Highway patrol car that was zooming out of the lot, its lights flashing.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Tommy shot an alarmed look out the back window of the Prius, and turned an angry glare on Charlie. "Step on it! Can't this thing move any faster?"

Charlie's lips were tight. "I've got it floored – it _is_ an economy car. You're not going to outrun a Highway Patrol car in a Prius." He could see the CHP car in his rearview mirror, well back of them. It had come up along the line of stopped cars, which they had left far behind, and was gaining ground steadily. To Charlie, it was like a lifeline – there was someone back there who knew what the situation was; someone coming to his rescue. There was just one issue that kept his heart thumping in his chest like a hammer; a little thing called a bullet. He was keenly aware if it came to a shootout, he would undoubtedly be in the middle of it. Somehow, he had to convince them that exchanging gunfire was not in their best interests.

Tommy hit a button on his cell phone and spoke into it, tersely. "It's me. We got a chippie on our tail. There's no way we can pull over. Where you at?"

Sean watched the road ahead hurtle toward them, cell phone to his ear. Lenny had them well out in front; his Impala had a rebuilt engine with muscle; the car was a lot faster than the car Tommy had commandeered. "You can't go any faster?"

'Nah – we're in some goddamned hybrid economy job. When he gets close, we'll have to try to take him out."

Sean frowned. "Try not to hit him. Shoot his tires out or somethin.' You don't need no murder rap – they won't stop 'til they find you if you shoot a cop. We need to make sure you don't get pegged for the one who already got shot – somehow we'll make sure they know that Jazz did it." He kept his voice calm for Tommy's sake, but his guts were churning. What had seemed like a simple plan had gone bad, way bad, he thought. He could already hear Dillon – his brother would be beyond pissed. "Just keep your head, Tommy. When the cop gets close enough, take his car out of the picture, and we'll find a place up here to pull over."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Jersich stepped out of the mobile command center as Don and his team trudged up, and handed Don a file. The wind was picking up again, and Jersich had to talk loudly to be heard. "Damage update's in the file. It's not getting any better, although there aren't too many more dwellings involved." He'd gone no further when the trailer door behind him opened, and one of his communications people stuck their head out. "Sir, we've got the State Highway Patrol on the radio. I don't think it affects us, but you might want to hear it." He looked at the agents standing around his boss. "They might want to hear it too."

Jersich nodded, and gestured, ushering them in. The command unit was a retrofitted mobile home, and it was a tight squeeze. Inside, two technicians manned computers and a radio unit. The one who had given them the message spoke into the unit. "Okay, I've got the fire marshal, and some feds, uh, FBI agents who are out here investigating the fire." He looked at them questioningly, and Don stepped and leaned over the send unit. "Special Agent Don Eppes, L.A. here."

A voice came over the line – surprisingly clear, despite the faint hum of background static. "Good – we may need you guys on this one. This is Sergeant Bill Watson – we have an issue on Route 18 south of you – an apparent prison break – some prisoners working the fire line overcame their guards and made it up to the highway. Three of them – armed. They intercepted a caravan of cars, which were being escorted down 18 before it was closed. The State Highway Patrol officer in the lead stopped when he saw them, and tried to get them to stand down. They shot him – he's dead. Witnesses say he got a round off, but they didn't think he hit any of them. Here's the thing – they carjacked the next car in line, and took the driver with them. They're headed south."

Don felt a little prickling sensation at the back of his neck. He'd had an unspoken question in the back of his mind since the moment the man had mentioned the cars being escorted down the highway – namely, was Charlie in that caravan? He tried to shove the thought into the back of his mind. What were the odds that Charlie was in the next car? Remote, he was sure. Still, he asked the question. "Did you get a description of the car?"

He could hear a hint of disgust in Watson's voice. "Not a good one. There were young college kids in the next two cars, and they were so freaked out by what happened, they couldn't even agree on a description. One said blue, the other said green. No one checked out the plates. We had an officer at the back of the caravan and he drove up to the front – got the report on what happened and radioed it in. He's in pursuit now, and he has them in sight, but just barely – they're too far down the road for him to get a good look. He's closing though."

"As far as backup goes, there's another fire command center south of there, and we're pulling men up the road to set up a roadblock, and we've got more units coming down from the north. Chances are we'll have them cornered before you could get there, but you're welcome to join on us on this. We don't usually get hostage situations."

"Yeah, we will," replied Don. "We were just getting ready to head out of here." '_Not to mention my kid brother might be in that caravan somewhere_,' he added to himself. "_I'd like to know that he's okay_.' He gave Watson his cell phone number. "You can get me on that number – keep me posted. We'll get down there as fast as we can." Watson signed off, and Don looked at Jersich. "How far from this command post is this place?"

"The spot where the prisoners are working is about twenty minutes south of here." Jersich pointed to the map. "Just a little south of Twin Peaks. Good luck."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie glanced nervously in the rearview mirror, his throat dry. The CHP car had come up behind them, its lights flashing. It was so close; Charlie could see the officer talking on his radio. "We really should pull over," he said, trying to sound confident, but his voice came out a bit shaky. "Don't make this any worse than it already is."

"Shut up," snarled Tommy. "You don't tell me what to do." He turned to Jazz and Jake in the back seat. "We need to take out his car, shoot out his tires or somethin.'"

"Okay," Jazz grinned, and lifted the rifle, maneuvering it in the back seat so the butt was facing the back window, and heaved it. The first blow cracked the window; Charlie flinched and his eyes found the rearview mirror, full of alarm. The second blow gouged a hole out of the cracked section, and in his side view mirror, Charlie could see the CHP drop back a little, as Jazz turned the rifle around and stuck the barrel out through the hole, reaming it out a bit so he could sight down the barrel. At the first shot, the CHP swerved, and dropped back a bit more, but kept coming.

"Hey, asshole, keep the car steady," growled Jazz, and he squeezed the trigger again. This time the front right side of the patrol vehicle dipped, and the car veered sharply to the right, the officer fighting to keep control. With a plummeting heart, Charlie watched in the side mirror as the patrol car rotated on smoking tires and slid off the road, and down an embankment.

Tommy was already on the phone. "Come on, pick up." He frowned in impatience.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Sean felt his phone vibrate, but sat perfectly still with a bland expression, as Lenny handed his ID to the officer at the window. Inside, he was screaming. How in the hell had they managed to get a roadblock set up so quickly? They'd just passed one of the few signs of life on the road, a small packing concern that sat off among the trees to the left, and the road had taken a sharp turn right, toward the west. The roadblock had been set up just past the curve. Anyone approaching it would have reduced their speed for the turn, and would have no advance knowledge that the officers were there. They were smart bastards; he had to admit.

"Anyone behind you on the road?" asked the officer, handing Lenny back his ID.

Lenny shook his head. "Nope. Haven't seen another car in a while."

"Okay," the officer waved them through, and Lenny glided ahead, rolling up the window. Sean waited until they were past the patrol cars before he pulled out his cell phone.

His brother's angry voice greeted him. "Where in the hell were you?"

"Sittin' in a road block," Sean retorted.

"What? Where?"

"It's just past a little packaging place – the name starts with a G. You can't miss it – it's the only thing on the road for miles. There's a sharp turn just past it – they're set up there. That patrol officer catch up to you?"

Tommy took his eyes off the pale driver, and shot a grim glance toward Jake and Jazz. "Yeah, we shot out a tire – it blew out, and he spun off the road. There's another one comin' though, we can see him, way back."

Sean's mind raced. He knew Tommy should probably just give it up, but he couldn't bear to think of the fallout, or of facing Dillon, knowing that when Tommy went back in, it would be for a lot longer than the eight years for which he was currently sentenced. They had to get out of this somehow. "Listen to me. Pull off in that packaging place, and get set up in one of the buildings, where they can't shoot at you. Tell 'em you aren't comin' out until they clear that roadblock and let you through. Me and Lenny'll go down the road and scope out what's ahead."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Megan was silent as Don pushed speed dial on his cell phone and put it to his ear, for the third time. She had ridden with Don in his SUV, and Colby and David trailed behind them, in David's car.

She watched; her brow furrowed just a bit, as Don frowned, and hung up. "Still not answering?" she asked, although she knew the response to that question already.

He shook his head, his lips tight. "He's probably still ticked off, and isn't picking up his phone. I'm sure he's sitting in that line somewhere." '_When I get hold of him, I'm gonna wring his neck,_" he added to himself, '_for not answering_.'

The phone rang, and he snapped it open and raised it to his ear without looking at the number. "Yeah, Charlie?" He stopped abruptly. "No, I'm sorry, this is Agent Eppes. Hold on, Agent Reeves is with me. I'm going to put you on the speaker." He hit a button, and Sergeant Watson's voice emanated from the cell phone, sounding tinny and far away.

"Agents, I wanted to give you an update. One of our troopers got close enough to get a description of the car, and the plates. They shot out the trooper's front tire, and forced him off the road, but not before he ID'd the car. It's a blue Prius -," he rattled off the plate number, and Megan watched as Don's face went blank, and dead white. She didn't need to know the plate number to know what that meant, and she could feel her insides twist, in fear and sympathy.

Watson continued, "We're running the plates through the DMV."

"You don't need to." Don voice came out harsh, strained. "I know who it is."

"You know -?" Watson stopped in confusion, and silence descended. After a moment, his voice came over the phone. "Agent Eppes, are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here," replied Don, with an effort. "The driver is my brother, Charles Eppes."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"We got trouble."

Charlie's captor in the passenger seat had turned around and was addressing the men behind them. Charlie took the opportunity to steal a glance at the man, taking in the dirty jumpsuit, the lean face that probably looked older than it really was, and the lank dark hair and icy blue eyes. He looked back at the road, listening for names, any clue as to who these men were. If he got out of this – _when_ he got out of this, he corrected himself, that information might be needed. Besides, he was near panic; he could feel himself shaking. He needed to focus on something, to keep from losing it.

"No kiddin,' Tommy," jeered the man who had shot at the trooper. "When'd you figure that out?"

Tommy scowled at him. "I'm not screwin' around here, Jazz. They just told me there's a roadblock up ahead. There's a packaging place right before it – they told me to pull in there, and wait until they take down the roadblock."

"What, like the troopers ain't gonna look for us there?" sneered Jazz. "And they're just gonna take down the roadblock."

"They'll know we're there, asshole. We got a hostage, we make demands, and they take it down. It ain't great, but what else do we got? There's another chippie behind us, and probably more behind him, and a roadblock in front of us."

Charlie snuck another glance out the side mirror, and picked up the patrol car, still quite a distance back. It was encouraging, but did little to stop the aggravated heart rhythm that had started with the words, 'hostage,' and 'demands.' The men were now cornered, and growing more and more desperate. He swallowed the fear clutching at his throat. "I don't think you'll get very far with that – you should probably just pull over, and cut your losses."

Tommy turned toward him, his face livid, but before he could speak, the other man spoke up from the back seat. "He might be right, Tommy."

Tommy turned back toward him, hissing in rage. "Is that what you want, Jake? To go back in, and have God knows how many years added to your sentence? We can pull over and let you out right here if you want." He glared at Jake, who shifted uncomfortably.

"No, forget it, man," said Jake. "You're right. None of us wants to go back in there."

"Damn straight, I'm right," said Tommy, and turned forward. "And you-," he punctuated the words with a jab of the gun to Charlie's jaw. "You shut your mouth. I told you before – don't tell me what to do." He peered out of the window at an approaching sign. "That's it – Glowe Packaging. Pull in there."

Charlie unclenched his jaw, still tingling from the hair-raising feeling of gunmetal. He took his foot off the gas, but left it hanging over the brake, hesitating. Maybe he could overrun the turnoff by a little – they'd have to backtrack – it might allow the trooper behind them to catch up…

The gun barrel hit him hard in the neck. "I said turn!"

Charlie's heart lurched in his chest, and he tromped on the brake and swung the wheel at the same time, missing the gravel drive by a bit. He slowed down, guiding the Prius down the track to a gravel lot, which appeared deserted. The place had obviously been evacuated in the face of the oncoming fire.

"Back the car up next to the side of that building, right by that doorway," directed Tommy.

Charlie did as he was told, pulling the Prius onto the grass and backing it next to a building toward the rear of the property, next to a side entrance. Jazz and Jake didn't wait for the car to stop; they piled out as he backed it up, and ran over to the door of the building, which looked like a smaller modern version of a barn. Jake discharged the automatic rifle at the lock and Charlie, who had just turned off the car, jumped at the report.

Tommy leapt out of the car and ran around the front to Charlie's side, yanking open the door, with the pistol trained at Charlie's head. "Leave the keys in it and get out. Move!"

Charlie rose slowly from the seat, and Tommy grabbed him roughly by his arm and pushed him forward, around to the front of the building, where Jazz was sliding the door ajar just enough for them to enter. The smoke was thicker here, while not visibly more than a haze, it made its presence felt by its smell; acrid, biting. Charlie had seen the sign for the bend in the road, and he knew exactly where they were. The road veered west at the bend, and just south of it raged a portion of the fire that was out of control. That blaze was the reason that Highway 18 was being shut down, and the inferno was headed their way.

Jake snapped a light on, revealing an open space full of stacks of pre-cut cardboard for boxes, and towers of wooden pallets. Tommy strode through it looking from side to side. "Check it out," he commanded tersely. "Look for anything we can use. Jazz, unlock the side door by the car, make sure we can get out that way." He spied a roll of rough twine on top on a pile of cardboard, and motioned at Charlie with the pistol. "You – over here."

Charlie moved toward him slowly, aware of Jake behind him at the partially open door, blocking any chance of escape. As he came closer, Tommy reached a hand around his shoulder and pushed him into the stack of cardboard, leaning him over it. "Hands behind your back," snarled Tommy, jerking Charlie's wrists behind him.

Charlie felt rough twine being wrapped around his wrists, and winced as it cut into his skin, trying to fight down the panic rising in his chest. Tommy cut the ends of the twine off with a box cutter, and felt in Charlie's rear pocket. He removed Charlie's wallet, then grabbed his shoulder and swung him around, pushing him against the boxes. "Stay right there. If you move, I'll blast your kneecaps off."

He tossed the twine to Jazz, who had picked up another box cutter and a crowbar, and was heading toward the side door. "Put that stuff in the car." He opened the wallet, glancing at the driver's license and ID.

"Better hurry," said Jake, who was peering out of the door at the patrol car pulling into the gravel drive. "They're here."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Megan glanced sideways, taking in Don's set jaw, the eyes that bored through the windshield like dark coals. Earlier, Megan had called David in the car behind them, and quietly filled him in on what Watson had told them. About twenty minutes later, they had gone through the area where the abduction had occurred. They passed a line of traffic along the way; the cars in the caravan had been turned around and sent back north on Highway 18 to 318, away from the roadblock and the developing situation to the south. By the time Don and Megan reached the site, the prison buses were there, accompanied by more patrol cars and two ambulances.

Don had slowed and exchanged a few words with one of the state troopers, and they were off again, streaking along the highway at a blistering pace; David and Colby right behind. Megan eyed him. "You okay?"

Don didn't answer her directly, or even look at her. Instead, he twisted his lips in an expression of frustration and regret. "Why in the hell doesn't he listen? I told him to go home hours ago, when he was up at Santa Clarita. He gets these – ideas – I don't know – these –,"

"Inspirations?" suggested Megan.

"Yeah, I guess you could call it that – more like impulses – he gets all fired up and jumps into things, and doesn't think about anything or anybody else. It's like he's possessed, or something, until he gets it out of his system – it drives you crazy. He shouldn't be here right now – he should have been home…" His voice trailed off, and before either of them could say anything else, his phone rang.

He glanced at it and put it on speaker. "Yeah, Sergeant, go ahead."

Watson's voice floated into the air. "We've got a change in plan. They didn't go as far as the roadblock – they pulled off just before it. They're holed up in a small business called Glowe Packaging – it's just to your left before you make the turn. I'm here with my men, we're trying to establish contact, but they aren't talking yet."

"Okay – tell your men to hold on – I'm guessing we're fifteen minutes out. Agent Reeves is a profiler and has some negotiations training – we'll have her talk to them."

"Right." Watson hung up, and silence descended again. Somewhere, in the maze of anxiety and frustration that claimed his mind, it occurred to Don he might be putting too much pressure on Reeves. She knew Charlie after all – she'd be bargaining for the life of her boss' brother, Larry's best friend…He looked at her. "Are you up for this?"

She looked back at him, her eyes steady, confident. "Absolutely," she said evenly, holding his eyes.

He nodded and took a deep breath, and stepped harder on the gas.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Daylight was beginning to wane, and Tommy had turned out the lights. Twilight, made impotent by haze, seeped through the opening in the door, providing the only light in the room. They could see the patrol cars pulled up in the parking area, lights flashing, and officers behind them; those on point had their guns trained on the building.

Charlie fidgeted, nervousness warring with impatience. If they sat here much longer, they'd be trapped by the oncoming blaze. He was certain it was something Tommy hadn't considered. Pushing away from the stack of cardboard, he took a few tentative steps toward Tommy, who had just hung up his cell phone. "We can't stay here much longer," he said, trying to sound as meek, as non-threatening, as he could. "The fire is coming up this way-'"

"Shut up," snapped Tommy, stepping angrily away from him.

Charlie took a step behind him, pleading. "You don't understand – I'm a consultant, I spent all afternoon studying this fire – we need to get out of here soon -,"

"SHUT UP!" Tommy whirled on him, and with the momentum, delivered a punch to the left side of Charlie's face that sent him flying backwards into the cardboard. He tasted blood, his head ringing, but didn't have a chance to sense much else before Tommy was on him like a madman. "Shut up, shut up, shut up-," he screamed, delivering furious punches to Charlie's torso with each directive. He stood, his chest heaving, and pointed a finger, trembling with rage, at Charlie's chest. "I told you, don't tell me what to do!"

Charlie lay gasping, motionless for a moment, and as Tommy stepped back, he sagged sideways, half-sitting, half-leaning against the cardboard. His mouth was filled with blood from a cut on the inside of his cheek, and he gagged and spat, as a trickle ran out the corner and dripped down his chin. For a moment, the fear he had been trying to keep at bay overwhelmed him, and it allowed all of the thoughts he'd been keeping submerged to rise with it. He should have listened to Don, he should have gone home after Santa Clarita, hell, _before_ Santa Clarita – he could have helped by going through the proper channels, instead of jumping out of his car on the spot, like some pathetic, overly enthusiastic rube. If he hadn't, he'd be home now.

Home. He closed his eyes, and a vision of the Craftsman house filled his mind, making his heart ache. His father, sitting by the lamp, the cozy peaceful setting…there was a good chance he'd never see it again – never see his father, Amita, Larry – God, how had he gotten into this?

Tommy joined Jake at the door, and peered out cautiously. They could see out easily, although it was getting darker by the minute, but he knew that those outside would have a hard time seeing into the darkened building. The sliding door was a problem – there were no windows in the building, so they had to keep the door ajar to look out. It was easy to defend though – they only had to watch one opening, as long as the side door was locked. He spoke to Jake. "They still want to talk?"

"They were asking before, but they quit. I think they're waiting for someone." As he spoke, headlights appeared on the road, and two vehicles turned into the driveway, the first a dark SUV. They watched intently as the passengers alighted, and even in the waning light, they could see the white "FBI" emblazoned on the windbreakers. "Feds," said Tommy. "They were waiting for the feds."

At the words, Charlie's head came up, and he looked toward the doorway, although he couldn't see much from his vantage point. Was Don out there? He felt a just a twinge of hope, and drew a deep, steadying breath. The next voice he heard wasn't Don's, but it answered his question.

Megan's voice floated in through the opening, magnified by a bullhorn. "This is Agent Reeves from the FBI. I'd like to speak with whoever is in charge."

Tommy grinned fiercely. "The feds," he said to Jake and Jazz. "We hit the big time boys. It's all or nuthin.'" He shouted out through the door. "You come closer, unarmed, so I don't have to yell, and I'll tell you what we want!"

Don took in the building, the dark slit of open door. At the side, partially obscured by another building to their left, he could see Charlie's Prius. The building was surrounded; he knew from talking to Sergeant Watson there were troopers in the trees around the building, and a wall of cars filled the lot out front. Megan was stripping off her windbreaker and removing her shoulder holster, and Don began to pull his off also. "I'll come with you," he said.

"That's not necessary," she replied, her gaze direct, and a bit speculative.

"Yes it is," he said quietly. "I'm the lead agent – we'll go up together."

Tommy watched intently as the two figures approached, searching for signs of a weapon. "Watch 'em," he hissed to Jake, and turned and bounded over to Charlie. "Get up!" He grabbed Charlie's arm, dragging him to his feet, and pulled him over to the door, but to the side, out of sight. Tommy took a quick glance through the opening. The two agents were mere yards away from the door now, standing with their hands at their sides, waiting. "Who's that with you, Reeves?" he called out.

"Special Agent Don Eppes," replied Don, his voice steely. "I'm the agent in charge here."

Tommy frowned. "Eppes?" he murmured softly, remembering the name he'd seen in his hostage's wallet. He grabbed Charlie by the collar. "Relation of yours?"

Charlie stared back at him, mouth dry; heart thumping. Tommy gathered more shirt in his hand and squeezed tighter, shaking him a bit. "Answer me!"

"He's my brother," Charlie gasped, and watched Tommy's face anxiously. He had no idea how the man would react to the information, but he hoped fervently it would discourage him.

Tommy stared at him a moment, his eyes narrowed, then he smiled. "I got a proposition for you, feds," he called out. He seized Charlie roughly by the hair, grabbing a fistful on the back of his head, jerking his chin up, and put the barrel of the pistol under his jaw, then pushed him into the opening, standing behind him. "You get the state troopers to take down their roadblock and let us through, and when we're away, we'll let your consultant go."

Don thought he had himself prepared for this, but the sight of Charlie, with his hands bound behind him and a gun to his neck, took his breath away. He simply stared for a moment, noting the blood at the corner of Charlie's mouth, the dark splatters on the white shirt. It took his brother's eyes to jolt him back into awareness – dark, desperate. He realized that Megan was speaking.

"That's not going to happen," she said evenly. "You're surrounded; you're not going to get out of here. We can wait as long as it takes."

"No, you can't," sneered Tommy, "and you know it. The fire's comin' – you can't afford to wait. My consultant here tells me so. Now listen up – you're dealin' with three guys who got nothin' to lose. We'd rather die than go back in, so you got two choices – you let us go, or you take us down – but let's be clear about it – you pick the second option, and this guy goes with us." He smiled, and looked directly at Don. "You ready to watch your brother die, fed? If not, then you better take down that roadblock."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Trooper Joey Puccino watched from his vantage point in the trees. He could feel the adrenaline; the excitement of his first stakeout, and he flexed his muscular arms, unconsciously. At 23, he was at the height of his physical prowess, and he knew it. He also knew, with the unswayable confidence of a twenty-three year old, that he was invincible. There was no doubt in his mind he could take down these bozos, and as he watched the two in the doorway behind the hostage, he was even further convinced. One of them, the blonde guy, had been standing guard at the doorway since Joey had gotten in position, but he had no idea Joey was there. He spent most of his time looking straight out, toward the parking lot. From time to time, he'd send a cursory glance toward the trees, but for the most part, he never looked sideways.

Joey watched as the two agents conversed with the dark haired man holding the gun to the hostage. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but after a moment, he saw them turn and walk back to the relative safety of the patrol car barrier. The dark haired man muscled the hostage inside, but the blonde man stayed at his post, just inside the door. Joey knew he and the other troopers had been given orders to hold positions and not to shoot until commanded, but he also knew if he could reach the side of barn undetected, a short dash around the corner would bring him to the entrance. He could take out blondie before the man knew what hit him, blow through the doorway, and hit the other two. It would be over, just like that, and he would be a hero, and on his way up through the ranks.

He paused just a moment, considering, then began making his way through the trees toward the rear of the building. He could come out there, and sneak between the building and the car next to it. He spoke quietly into his headset. "This is Puccino. I'm stayin' on your left side, but I'm gonna try to get alongside the building."

"Roger that," came the reply, and Joey grinned to himself. He knew better than to let on what his full intention was. He was going to show them how it was done.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Colby watched Don and Megan approach, and exchanged a glance with David. Although there was tension between them still, it was evaporating slowly as they worked together, and already Colby knew they were on the same wavelength, that each knew what the other was thinking. Both he and David knew that Don needed to stand down on this one – there was no question. Even if the rules hadn't demanded it, Colby could see it in Don's face – pale, with real fear in the dark eyes. It was an expression he'd seen only twice before, the first time when Megan had been taken hostage, and again just a few weeks ago, when Charlie had nearly been shot during the Parks case. In the previous cases, Don had been afraid, but still had been driven, decisive. Now he looked shaken and uncertain. Not a good state of mind for the guy in charge.

Don blinked as a gust of wind swirled smoke in his eyes. Night had now fallen, and the smoke was getting thicker, stronger. His mind whirled like the smoke, in dizzying, shifting patterns. He knew he needed to step down as agent in charge – protocol demanded it. He also knew Megan would accept any task he gave her, without question. It was her unquestioning sense of duty that bothered him – he knew, if things went badly, if she felt she had made the wrong decision, she would forever blame herself, just as he would. It felt wrong somehow to make her take that burden, when he could take it himself. No, the decision would be made by him. He could take himself out of the action for the safety of his teammates, but he would make the call – to call the officers off and remove the roadblock, or not. The only question in his mind was which decision to make. He knew what his gut was telling him, and he didn't like it.

Colby, David, and Sergeant Watson gathered with them behind a patrol car, and the others looked at Don expectantly. He knew what they were waiting for – for him to abdicate his position of authority. He looked directly at Megan. "I'm gonna call this one, Reeves."

He saw the look of alarm in her eyes. "Don, you know you need to stand down," she said quietly. "If this goes bad, they'll throw the book at you."

He shrugged. "I'm already in hot water – he was out in the field without a release."

She shook her head. "He wasn't out in the field on FBI time-,"

He shook his head grimly. "That's not what it will look like." He paused, and looked at the others. Colby and David looked back at him, concern in their eyes.

Sergeant Watson had been silent, observing the exchange as if it was a verbal tennis match. He made no comment on Don's decision; instead, he said quietly, "We already took down the roadblock; we didn't need it anymore, now that we have them pinned down. All of those men are right here - this_ is_ the roadblock. We have a SWAT team on the way. They're about a half hour north of here. I've been getting reports from the fire marshal down the road - it's cutting it pretty close. If SWAT gets delayed for any reason, we're gonna have to go in with my guys, and your team. We'll definitely need to head north when we're done here – the fire's too close. Route 18 south is closed now, even to emergency personnel."

Don shook his head, and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Megan blurted, "We need to let them go." She looked at Don, and he knew what she was trying to do. Everyone there could testify she had spoken first. If he made the same decision, he could claim that even though he kept command, he had taken the recommendation of the next in charge, someone removed enough to make an unbiased decision. That was _if_ he made the same decision. If he didn't, the case against him would be even stronger. She had gambled on what he was about to say – that he had read the situation the same way she had.

At his pause, she continued, making her case. "We're dealing with men who value their freedom more than they value their lives. If they're attacked in their current state of mind, they won't hesitate to go out in a blaze of glory, and take Charlie with them. Our best bet is to let them leave, negotiate some kind of release condition for Charlie, and give them some space, but keep them under surveillance. If we give them time to cool down, to think about their options, we'll be more likely to get a different decision from them. Ordinarily, we'd hold our positions and let that happen here, but with the fire coming, we don't have that option. We need to let them go, to make them feel like we're dealing in good faith."

They looked at Don, waiting for him to speak, but he never got a chance to get the words out. The sound of a shot rang out behind him, and instantly, the situation changed.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie stood in the back of the room near the cardboard stacks, trying to will his heart to stop pounding. Tommy had pushed him there after his conversation with Don and Megan, and Charlie had stayed put, not daring to move, to do anything that would set off Tommy's powder-keg temper. The calmer that man stayed, Charlie reasoned, the better the chances were that he would get out of here. He prayed, above all, it would end soon – he'd rather take his chances in a dicey rescue than to leave here still a prisoner. He had positioned himself so even though he was well back in the room, he could see out through the opening in the doorway, and he could make out Don's dark head in the group beyond the flashing lights of the patrol cars. Somehow, just to see him, to know he was close, was an immeasurable comfort.

Jake watched the open area in front of him with growing nervousness. It was dark now, and the flashing lights made it hard to pick out movement. He continually scanned the patrol cars, watching for the officers behind them to advance. He was so intent on what was in front of him; he was completely surprised by the figure that appeared from his right. The shot hit him directly in the chest and his muscles went into spasm; his finger on the trigger jerked and contracted, sending a blast of rifle cartridges in an arc around him.

Charlie ducked instinctively, diving for the floor. Without his arms to stop him he hit hard on his shoulder; and even over his own grunt of pain he heard a cry from Tommy, then more gunshots. Charlie looked up as the trooper silhouetted in the doorway fell on top of Jake, and then felt a rough hand yanking him to his feet. Jazz dragged him toward the side door, and in the reflected pulsing lights from the patrol cars, he could see Tommy holding it open, leaning a little, blood running down his upper arm. Then they were outside, and Jazz was shoving him into the back of the Prius.

"We're comin' out!" he heard Tommy scream. "Move your men back and let us through; or he gets it in the head!" Then Tommy was beside him in the backseat, and the pistol was pressed against his temple.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Six miles to the southwest, down Highway 18, was another fire command center. It bustled with activity; the firefighters were preparing to move as the monster of a blaze moved up from the south, toward the highway. Firefighter Jason Ricks strode across the road to help load gear, when he was stopped by Mike Lackerman, the fire marshal. "Jason," he said, "We're running behind. I need one more read from the lookout point – I don't want to leave gear behind if I don't have to, but it seems like it's coming faster than we thought. Can you run up there and give us a revised estimate?"

Jason nodded. "No problem." With a slap on his arm from the marshal, he was off for his SUV. The lookout point was up the road about two miles to the northwest; they had been taking readings from that point since they had been at this post, for five days now. It was a little dangerous to head back that way, the smoke was thicker, and visibility was poor. Jason was experienced, however, and had made the trip countless times already. It would be a quick drive up, a relatively quick look at the situation, and a quick drive back. Without a second thought, he turned his SUV northeast and headed into the swirling, thickening haze.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"Hold your fire!" screamed Watson to his troopers, after the first shot sounded. He grabbed the bullhorn from the hood of his car, and repeated the command, even as rifle shots rang out inside the building. Another shot was heard, and the trooper in the doorway fell. For a moment, everyone froze, and Don stared at the building in shock, trying to fathom what had just happened.

One of the troopers ran up to Watson. "It was Puccino," he gasped. "He just went in after them." Watson silenced him with a raised hand, and they watched as the side door opened. The angle wasn't good, and Don caught just a glimpse as Charlie was pushed into the back of the Prius, but it looked like he was unharmed, and he released a huge shaky breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. The man who had brought Charlie out climbed immediately into the driver's seat.

The dark haired man came out next, screaming, "We're comin' out! Move your men back and let us through; or he gets it in the head!" He was moving as though one arm was injured, but he was brandishing a pistol with the other one, and he got in the backseat with Charlie. The car's headlights came on, but it sat there, the occupants waiting for a path to be cleared through the patrol cars.

Don was acutely aware of the eyes on him, waiting for him to call it, but his own gaze was fixed on the Prius. He turned finally, his eyes caught Megan's, and she spoke. "It doesn't change my opinion," she said. "One of them was just shot. They're angry and they're pumped right now – they're coming out, or they'll die trying." The horn of the Prius blared.

Don turned to Watson, his voiced filled with tension. "She's right; I have to make the same call. Tell your men to pull the patrol cars aside, but keep their weapons on them. If we can get a shot at the man holding Charlie, we need to take it." He straightened, and looked at Megan, and she caught just a flicker of the torture in his eyes before the expression was replaced by resolution. "I'm following in my SUV."

The patrol cars were starting to move around them, and the agents moved to one side as a group, repositioning themselves, weapons ready. Don fought down a sudden unexpected surge of panic as he saw the Prius inch forward, and he struggled inwardly for composure. He spoke over his shoulder, his eyes still trained on the slowly advancing car. "David and Colby, you can follow me. Megan, if you could handle the scene-,"

"I'll do it," offered Watson. "Delegate it to me – these are all my men, including the man who went down."

Don nodded. "Thanks."

"I'll go with you then," Megan said quickly; everyone's eyes were on the Prius now – a gap had been cleared and it pulled forward. The man in the backseat had leaned back and pulled Charlie in front of him, the pistol pressed to his head, and as the car passed, Charlie was turned so that they had an unobstructed view of his face.

His eyes met Don's, and Don caught his breath – Charlie's gaze was intense, pleading. Don stood frozen in position, searching for a shot, but the man had Charlie leaning backward against him, covering most of his head and upper body. The car was picking up speed – there was no chance of a shot without hitting his brother. Don's heart twisted as the car moved by, he felt like a traitor, immobilized by helplessness, by the look in his Charlie's eyes. He swallowed hard as the taillights made the road, took a step toward his SUV, and stopped dead. "Damn it," he said, in dismay, "They turned left – they're heading south!"

Watson shook his head. "That road's supposed to be closed, but there's no barricade between us and the south fire command center – other than the fire, there's nothing to stop them until they get to the command center. I'm sorry – I can't send my men with you if you go that way – but there are a couple of CHP units on the other side of the fire, at the command center. I can have them waiting for them."

"Okay – do that. Tell them to try to stop them, but not to force the issue – I'll be right behind the Prius. I'll continue to follow if necessary." Don shot the last of that over his shoulder, as he broke into a run for his SUV. He yelled at Megan, David, and Colby, who were keeping pace. "You guys should stay here – it's too dangerous-,"

"Forget that!" exclaimed David, panting, emitting a rare expletive with an exhalation. "We're comin' with you – go on, we'll be right behind you!"

Moments later, the two vehicles pulled out of the driveway, spitting gravel, and headed south.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The Prius swerved around the bend, and Tommy pushed Charlie away from him and fumbled for his cell phone. The call had no sooner connected than Sean's voice came on the line. "_Tommy – I been trying to call you. What in the hell's goin' on?_"

Tommy's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Yeah, well I been a little busy here. Me and Jazz got out, but they shot Jake, and I got one in the shoulder. Son of a bitch, this hurts. I'm bleedin' like a stuck pig, too. Where are you?"

"_South on 18, you need to hurry it up. We're sittin' right on the other side of a fire command center, but even they're clearin' out. If you hurry, you can get through before the fire hits the highway – you'll hit a smoky section in about two miles, then you'll have to drive through it – it's about four miles wide. I think Lenny and me are gonna have to move – they haven't paid much attention to us – there's a lot of cars and people here, but they're startin' to shoo people out of here. We'll find a place further down the road to meet up. Hold on - wait a minute…"_

Sean paused on the other end, and Tommy waited, frowning, then Sean spoke again. "_They're moving the fire equipment out, but they just brought up some patrol cars on the road. I think they're settin' up for you. You're gonna have to be ready, as soon as you come out of the smoke – they're right there, waitin.'_"

"Okay," replied Tommy, with a glance at his hostage, "we'll be ready. I'll talk to you when we get on the other side." He disconnected, and rolled the phone gingerly back in his jumpsuit sleeve, with a quick glance out the back. He saw nothing but darkness behind them, and he smiled grimly. They just might get out of this yet.

His hostage was staring blankly at the back of the seat in front of him, leaning forward slightly because of the bound hands behind his back, shoulders slumped. Apparently, their successful escape had taken the fight out of him. Tommy poked him in the shoulder with the barrel of the pistol. "You – Eppes – you got any rags or bandages in this thing?"

Charlie turned his head slightly, just enough to make eye contact. "No."

Tommy grunted, and settled back in his seat, and Charlie turned his head forward again. He couldn't believe they'd let them go – that Don had let them out with him. He had expected a takedown, a SWAT team, for them at least to try something…He chided himself – trying to convince himself that this wasn't the movies – things didn't usually work that way in real life.

In fact, Charlie reasoned, Don had made a classic move as far as game theory went. Charlie had tried to teach it to him on an earlier case, when Don was negotiating with a murderer for information. Give the opposition something; and they should respond in kind, and give something back. _Should_ being the operative word. The theory assumed the opposition was thinking rationally, and Charlie wasn't so sure that was the case here. Predicting how people would act by reading their emotional state – well, that was purely Don's department – and his brother was good at it. He straightened a little, feeling just a bit more encouraged. Don knew what he was doing. He was probably behind them right now…

Tommy caught Jazz's eyes in the rearview mirror. "See anything behind us?"

"Not a thing."

Charlie swallowed hard, and slumped miserably in his seat. '_Don knows what he's doing_,' he repeated to himself. '_Don knows what he's doing_.'

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

'_What in the hell am I doing?_' Don wondered, as he peered at the road. They were driving, lights out, so the occupants in the car far ahead couldn't see their headlights, and it was nearly impossible to see the road in the darkness. At times, the only thing that kept him on course was the sight of the taillights up ahead – and they were far down the road. He was trying to keep a steady pace so David wouldn't run into the back of him, and although he was trying hard to concentrate on the road, his mind kept going back over his decision. Had he done the right thing? It had felt right, when he first made it, but he was beginning to realize he couldn't trust his normal intuition. The fact that this was his brother, this was _Charlie_, was playing with his head. He thought he was being rational, but maybe he wasn't. How much were his emotions factoring into this?

Possibly, the trooper had had the right idea - perhaps the right course of action would have been to charge the kidnappers in the building and overpower them. In fact, he might have done just that, if he hadn't been so mortally afraid he'd burst in and witness his brother's death. However, it could have been the right move. If that trooper had gone in with some backup…hell, he just didn't know. Had he condemned his brother by allowing his feelings for him to get in the way? Or would he have made the same decision with a stranger? His only consolation was that he had come to the same conclusion as Megan. If he'd handed command over to her, they would be in the same position right now.

Maybe. Because just as the Prius was pulling out, Don's instinct had told him to move – somehow, to stop them there, in the car. It might well have been a deadly game of chicken – take out the driver and hope the man in the rear seat would back down, instead of shooting Charlie out of spite. However, at that instant Don's gut had done a reversal from his earlier position, and that was what it had told him to do. Even then, though, he was beginning to doubt himself, and when Megan reiterated they had to let them go, he had done it – simply because he couldn't trust his own decisions anymore.

That brought him to his current question. What in the hell was he doing? If he couldn't trust his own decisions, he shouldn't even be involved here. He needed to take himself out of this, at the first opportunity.

He could feel Megan's eyes on him, studying him, and he cast a glance at her, the faint glow from the dashboard lights illuminating her face.

She caught a glimpse of the torment, the uncertainty in his eyes; then he turned his face forward again. "How are you doing?" she asked softly.

He shook his head, and was silent for a long minute. "I'm taking myself out of this, the first chance we get," he said finally. "I keep second-guessing myself – I can't think straight."

She pursed her lips as if considering his statement, and nodded. "It's the right thing to do. When's the last time you talked to Wright?"

"When we started out on the trip down, before we knew Charlie was involved."

"You could probably call him now."

He sighed. "No, I'll wait. There's nowhere for me to go now, even if I took myself out – I'm still in it until we get to the command post. I'll call him from there."

The tiny taillights far down the road in front of him wavered, and he blinked, thinking his eyes were tiring. Then the lights wavered again and they were gone, swallowed by smoke. Charlie and his captors had reached the fire.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Firefighter Jason Ricks stood at the lookout point, eyes straining. He'd gotten there all right, although the visibility was next to nothing, and at a mile in, he'd reached for his mask. Earlier that day it had been easy to see the branches of the fire, but now, even though the blaze was much closer, the smoke was so dense it obscured the view. Those branches now appeared as dim red glowing arms, reaching toward him like a lethal fiery octopus. It was tough to get a read on how far out it was, but he thought he had a good estimate – as good as it was going to get. It would hit this section of the highway in minutes, but the command post was probably safe for another half hour. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed the fire marshal, and advised him he had about thirty minutes to finish evacuating. He told the marshal he was on his way back in, and then he turned and headed for his SUV.

He'd just reached it when he saw the headlights, and his face contracted in a look of consternation. Apparently, the roadblock up at Twin Peaks wasn't doing its job – there was someone coming down from the north, on a section of road that should have been blocked off hours ago. He stepped out from his SUV and waved his arms, preparing to dive back for the side of the road if they didn't see him in the smoke.

Jazz slowed to a stop, and they stared at the firefighter, who had materialized out of nowhere. They'd seen the glint of the reflectors in his taillights just in time and Jazz had slowed down; then stopped as he saw the man. It was a miracle they'd seen him or his vehicle at all – even though they'd shut off the outside air, the smoke had worked its way into the car through the hole in the back window, and their eyes were streaming.

Jazz frowned. "We're only two miles through the smoky area – d'ya think we're at the command center already?"

Tommy coughed. "No, we'd see more lights." A calculating look crossed his face, and he said, "Get out, we're gonna talk to the guy. Play it cool – he probably doesn't know who we are." He turned and glared at Charlie. "You stay put and be quiet – if you make a sound I'll put a bullet in that guy." He got out, holding the pistol behind his back, walking behind Jazz as they approached the man.

Ricks looked at them incredulously. He had to yell to be heard over the wind and through his mask. "What are you guys doing down here? This road's closed. I'm heading back out – you need to follow me."

Jazz nodded and choked, his eyes streaming, and bent and turned away, coughing, as the man turned his back. Tommy was coughing too, his eyes running so badly he could barely see, but the man was only three yards away, and Jazz was bent over, out of the line of fire. Tommy drew the pistol and shot the firefighter in the back.

The man pitched forward and Tommy ran to look, dragging his good arm across his face to wipe the tears away. It was a good shot – right smack in the middle of the shoulders. He'd just killed a guy – his first. The man was probably dead before he'd hit the ground. He turned and yelled at Jazz. "Put on his coat, mask, and hat." He stopped for a fit of choking. "And see if he has another freakin' mask in that truck." He turned and trotted back, stumbling a bit, to the Prius, and yanked the back door open. "Get out!"

Charlie looked at him, frozen in horror. He knew what was happening. They were switching vehicles. Tommy had just shot that man, and he was next. They'd leave the bodies, and take off in the SUV.

"Get out!" choked Tommy angrily. "You get in the back of that SUV, and lie flat. NOW!"

Charlie blinked, and coughed, not sure if he'd heard right, but decided he'd better do as he was told. It was better than being shot – although as he climbed awkwardly out and staggered toward the SUV, tears pouring from his smoke-irritated eyes, he had the awful feeling there was a bullet in that gun for his back, also. As he reached the back of the vehicle, a fit of coughing took him, so violent he doubled over; then retched. When he straightened, gasping, the back hatch was up, and Jazz half-pushed, half-lifted him into the back. The pushing and straining made the coarse twine cut cruelly into his wrists, and he bit a back a groan.

He lay there for a minute, still coughing, and then someone else was pushed in beside him. He thought it was Tommy at first, then realized in horror that he was lying next to the dead firefighter. He tried to scoot away, but stopped as he saw that Tommy was getting ready to climb in on the other side of him.

He could see Tommy's grinning face, leering in the headlights of the Prius, and then it was obscured, covered with the mask Jazz had handed him. Jazz tossed in the ball of twine, and then Tommy clambered in, the pistol still in his good hand, and lay down awkwardly next to Charlie. There was some rolled up tarp in the back; Jazz pulled it over all three of them, and jumped in the driver's seat.

Tommy coughed in the mask; then sniffled, and Charlie heard the glee in his voice. "Ain't this freakin' cozy?" he asked; then pushed the barrel of the pistol against Charlie's forehead, in the darkness under the tarp. "Just lie still when we go through the checkpoint, and you won't get hurt. And stop that goddamn coughing."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don had thought it slow going before, but now that they were in the smoke plume, it was truly impossible to see. He crept forward, barely inching along, trying to feel his way by running the left tires on the road and the right on the gravel shoulder. Finally, he pulled out his cell phone. "David, we're going to have to go to lights. The smoke will give us cover if we don't get too close."

He flicked on the headlights, coughing, and looked at Megan. "You okay?"

She nodded, but her face was pale. It was an eerie experience, even for a seasoned agent. They were immersed in smoke, fire could find them at any moment, and escape would be difficult, if not impossible. She was encouraged by the fact that the Prius was up somewhere ahead, which should mean the road was still passable. Unless, of course, they found the car engulfed in flames.

A few minutes later, her heart lurched into her throat as the Prius taillights appeared out of nowhere, and for a moment, she thought this was it – they'd met the fire. As the headlights of Don's SUV illuminated the vehicle, she realized it appeared to be empty, and Don stepped on the brakes so hard David almost ran into the back of the SUV. They all piled out, coughing, and ran toward the Prius, which was still running, lights on, the driver's side doors, both front and rear, hanging open.

Don whirled around and ran up the road a few steps, then pivoted again, looking wildly around him. "Charlie? Charlie!" he called; then doubled over in a choking spasm. The others gathered next to him, coughing and choking as he straightened.

"They can't have gone off on foot!" Colby yelled, over the wind and the menacing roar coming from south side of the roadway. He could see the fire, shifting red and orange blobs, through the smoke.

David nodded vehemently, wiping his eyes. "It would be suicide – they'd never outrun the fire!"

"It's gonna be suicide for us if we don't move!" shouted Megan. "Come on, we've got to go!" She yanked on Don's arm, as he took one last bewildered look around him through streaming eyes, and he stumbled after her toward the SUV.

Colby headed for Charlie's Prius. "I'll drive this out of here!" he shouted, as Don and Megan ran past him.

"Fall in behind us!" Don commanded. "We don't need you getting shot!"

He threw himself in the SUV, and slammed the doors. A blast of sparks shot up the left side of the road and arced over them, landing on the right side, and immediately, the brush on that side caught with frightening speed, the flames burgeoning into an instant inferno. He stepped on the gas, and they took off, speeding down a road that had turned into a tunnel of fire.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

_Thanks for the reviews; they are very much appreciated._

**Chapter 9**

Lackerman, the fire marshal, watched as the last of the crew made off down Highway 18, and turned an anxious eye back to the wall of smoke that was threatening to immerse him. He breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted Jason Ricks' SUV appearing out of it, and waved him on. He caught a brief glimpse of Ricks in his mask, his hand raised in salute, and the SUV followed the rest of the crew down the road. Now the only thing that remained was to chase the State Highway patrol cars out of there.

A few minutes earlier, the officers had pulled up onto the stretch of highway in a roadblock formation. One of them had the courtesy to come to Lackerman and explain they had suspects coming through in a blue Prius, and orders to wait for it. Lackerman had reluctantly conceded to allowing them to set up, but the time had come to move them. As fire marshal, he was responsible for their well-being when it came to keeping them safe from the blaze, no matter what their orders were.

He trotted up to the road, and removed his mask as he approached one of the vehicles. The trooper got out as he approached.

"You guys have got to move out – to at least move down the road a little," Lackerman yelled. "We're evacuating this stretch."

The trooper hesitated. Setting up on the other side of the smoke plume was ideal; the perps wouldn't know the troopers were there until they were right on top of them. Still, the smoke was getting to be a liability; it was stinging their eyes and throats, and he suspected soon they'd have a hard time seeing, themselves. "Five more minutes!" he yelled back, and Lackerman pursed his lips and reluctantly nodded.

They didn't need five – it was less than one minute later when headlights became visible, and the troopers spread out among their vehicles and assumed ready positions, pistols leveled. Lackerman blanched and ducked behind a patrol car; it hadn't registered until that moment there might be shooting involved. The men tensed; then stared in confusion as a dark SUV emerged from the smoke, and pulled to a halt. Behind it followed a blue Prius, but even as two of the troopers ran to cover it, they could see another car pull up behind it, and all of the occupants emerged, choking, eyes streaming, reaching for badges.

Lackerman approached as a dark haired man – FBI, he could now see on their windbreakers - coughed out a question to the troopers. "Did anyone come out this way?"

"Just a firefighter," said one of them, and Lackerman spoke up.

"That was my man, Jason Ricks," he said. "I sent him in for a last check, I was watching for him to come out."

Don looked at the marshal. "Was there anyone in the vehicle with him?"

Lackerman shook his head. "No – just him. I waved him down the road – we're setting up again about ten miles down."

Don felt a twist of fear in his gut. Charlie and his captors had somehow vanished into the smoke-laden air. If they had decided to try to use the smoke cover to escape on foot…he suppressed a shudder, remembering the speed of the fire as it advanced over the highway. He and his team had barely made it out in vehicles, and even they were probably suffering from minor smoke inhalation. For anyone on foot, escape from that point would be impossible.

"We found this car abandoned a few miles back," Don replied. "We need to talk to Ricks – we need to know if he saw anyone else back there."

Lackerman nodded. "We need to get the heck out of here anyway. We'll catch up with him at the new command post. Fall in behind the troopers. I'll follow behind."

Colby and David fell into step beside each other as they made their way back to the Prius and David's car. David shook his head. "This doesn't look good, man." He looked at Colby, who nodded in dispirited agreement. It didn't look good, and things were going downhill by the minute.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"We're past the troopers," Jazz crowed from the front seat, and Charlie felt the top edge of the tarp flip down. Tommy had pulled it down in order to punch in a number on his cell phone, and Charlie coughed and then flinched as the pistol waved haphazardly with the motion of Tommy's fingers, as he manipulated the phone.

Tommy pulled off his mask and grinned at him, his expression filled with triumph, as he put the phone to his ear. "Hey man, it's me. We're past the command post – we're in a different vehicle now."

Sean responded on the other end, with relief. "That's great – how'd you get the vehicle?"

Tommy smirked, his eyes glittering with self-satisfaction. He was still lying in the back, facing Charlie, and as he talked, he looked him directly in the eye, as if to rub in his captive's dire predicament. "This is sweet, man. We got to the smoke plume, and there was this firefighter there, all by himself, with his SUV. I plugged him – right between the shoulder blades, and Jazz dressed up in his stuff. Me and the hostage lay down in the back under a tarp, and Jazz drove right out of there, right past the goddamn troopers."

Sean felt a twinge of admiration, but it was swallowed by concern. "You plugged him? As in dead?"

"Yeah, my first one – damn good shot too." Tommy coughed, still grinning, with a feral light in his eyes. "You don't know what it feels like until you do it, man – it's like this feeling of power-,"

"You know you just upped the ante," interrupted Sean with a scowl. "They're gonna come lookin' for you now, harder than they would have."

"Hell," scoffed Tommy, "they don't even know he's dead. We took him with us. We'll dump him and the vehicle somewhere – they won't be able to prove it was even us who did it."

"You took him with you – no shit," replied Sean, impressed. He had to admit, when his little brother was off meth and clear-headed, he actually was halfway intelligent.

"Yeah," cackled Tommy, "the dead bastard's laying here in the back, right next to us. It's pretty damn funny, when you think about it. Although I don't think Eppes thinks so."

Charlie tried hard to suppress a shudder – whether it was generated by the corpse behind him or Tommy's soulless amusement, he wasn't certain. The man lying in front of him had seemed to develop a taste for killing. He tried hard to block out the fear and pay attention; he'd been trying to pick up a name, to find out who Tommy was talking to, but so far the man had been careful; he hadn't referred to his contact by name.

"Okay, look," said Sean, "you need to quit crowin' and get serious. You're almost out of this. Me and Lenny are down the road, a few miles from where Highway 18 joins Highway 15. There'll be another roadblock there, but it should just be to keep people from coming up 18 toward the fire. There should be no reason Jazz can't just drive through there too, but tell him to keep his fire gear on, and pretend he's the fireman. Get the guy's wallet and find out what his name is. I'll call you as soon as we hit the roadblock."

"Right," said Tommy, but his expression changed to a scowl. He'd been running this show just fine; he didn't need Sean to tell him what to do. He snapped the phone shut and sat up awkwardly, cradling his injured arm. Even in the darkness, Charlie could see the dark stain on his upper sleeve; it looked as though the wound was in the fleshy part of his upper arm. Tommy laid the pistol down in front of Charlie's face and leaned over him, fishing in the dead man's pockets with his good arm, and with a grunt and a pull, sat back heavily. He opened the wallet and illuminated the driver's license with his cell phone screen. "Hey Jazz, this guy's name is Jason Ricks. If they ask you at the roadblock, that's who you are. Here."

He lobbed the dead man's wallet over the front seat. "Take a look at his address and stuff."

Jazz picked it up and glanced at it, and no sooner did he set it down than a cell phone in his coat pocket rang. He pulled it out and stared at it for a minute, as Tommy growled, "Don't answer it."

Jazz ignored him and opened the phone. "Ricks."

Tommy fixed the back of Jazz' head with a fierce scowl, and Charlie listened, his heart pounding, praying Jazz would screw up.

"Nah," said Jazz, "I'm beat – I've got to get some shut-eye or I'll be useless. Yeah, I'm kind of hoarse from the smoke. A what – a Prius? No, I didn't see one – I didn't see anyone, in fact. Okay - I'll be back out in a few hours." He snapped the phone shut, and grinned smugly at Tommy in the rearview mirror. "That was the fire marshal. He thinks he just talked to Ricks. He asked me if I'd checked in at the new command point, and I told him no, I was gonna get some sleep. He has no freakin' idea."

Tommy's scowl had softened to a look of grudging admiration. "That was stupid, you know it?" Charlie's throat was irritated from the smoke; he was trying his best to stay silent, but a cough escaped, and Tommy frowned at him.

Jazz smirked at Tommy in the rear view mirror. "You know it was brilliant." Then his smile faded. "Bad part though – I don't really look like the guy. If they're checkin' IDs at the roadblock we might have a problem."

"Better get rid of the phone," Tommy said. "Just toss it out of the window. They might put a trace on it." Jazz complied, and Tommy scowled as Charlie coughed again, and picked up the pistol and gave him a poke. "Get rid of that cough, Eppes, or I'll get rid of you. You make a sound when we're goin' through the roadblock, you're dead."

Charlie choked down the next cough with an effort. His hopes were dimming. The talk of another roadblock made him wonder if that had been Don's plan; to flush them out and set up for them elsewhere. His concern, however, was they were in another vehicle now, and they'd already gone past some troopers, unchecked. He knew from Jazz' conversation someone had found the Prius; the question was, did Don know? Would he realize they had switched vehicles? As he lay there bound uncomfortably between a killer and a corpse, he could only hope.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Fifteen minutes after their rendezvous with the troopers, Don and his team were at the new command point. They got stiffly out of their vehicles and looked around them, as the firefighters and other volunteers bustled around them in the darkness, setting up the new post. Megan, Colby, and David were all still coughing, and Don took a swipe at his eyes with a sleeve as Lackerman approached them at a trot.

"I got him on his cell phone – Ricks – he's heading home for some rest. He said he didn't see a Prius, or anyone else for that matter."

Don's eyes narrowed. "Did you ask him if he was alone?"

Lackerman stared at him, nonplussed. "I saw him drive past. He was alone."

Don was silent for a moment, and stared at the ground, trying to think. His mind seemed to be spinning uselessly. There had to be some answer to this, other than them walking away from the car. It just seemed inconceivable that two men, one of them injured, would try to drag a captive with them on foot across the rough terrain, with the fire at their heels.

Colby watched him for a moment; then turned to Lackerman. "What about another car? What if another vehicle came through before you started watching for Ricks?"

Megan shook her head. "Then why wouldn't Ricks have seen it?"

David spoke up. "Maybe they saw Ricks' headlights before Ricks saw theirs, and they turned their lights out and pulled over until he went past. The smoke was so thick, if they pulled over far enough, he might not have seen them, especially if he was concentrating on the road in front of him."

Don nodded. "That might be – but how would they have gotten the car? They'd had to have stopped someone – it might mean they have another hostage."

"Or worse, they left a body back there," said Megan slowly.

Don's brow was knit. "For that matter, we still can't rule out Ricks." He looked at Lackerman. "I know it looked like he was alone, but could there have been someone hiding in the vehicle, ducking down in the seats, maybe?"

Lackerman stared at the highway for a moment, as if trying to visualize the SUV. "It's possible, I guess. It sure looked like just him – he was wearing his gear, and he waved to me."

Don looked at him intently. "Did you see his face? Could you see his expression?"

Lackerman shook his head. "No, when I said he was wearing his gear, he was wearing all of it, including his mask and hat."

Don gaze turned speculative. "So for all you know, it might not have even been Ricks."

Lackerman stared at him, his jaw dropping as he processed the thought; then shook his head. "I guess it might not have been, but he called me just minutes before you showed up and gave me his report, and I just talked to him now – if it wasn't him, it sure sounded like him. I'd say the odds of it not being him were pretty small."

"Still," Don broke off as a cough consumed him. "Still," he repeated as he recovered, "I think we need to set up another block, and check the occupants of every vehicle coming off this road. Is there still a roadblock set up where 18 joins up with Highway 215?"

Lackerman nodded. "Yeah – there is. It's actually before there – it's set up on 18 just outside of Arrowhead Farms. You want me to call 'em?"

Don had pulled out his cell phone. "No, I'll call the Highway Patrol – Sergeant Watson."

"Okay," said Lackerman, "you guys had better get over to the medic, and park yourselves on some oxygen for a little while. It sounds like you got a good dose of smoke."

Don waved Megan, Colby and David off in the direction Lackerman indicated. "Go ahead, I'll be right there." He murmured to Megan as she turned. "I'm calling Wright after I get Watson to set up the roadblock. You ready to take over?"

She nodded and held his eyes for moment, then followed Colby and David. Don watched her go, as the line on the other end rang. His heart was racing and it felt a little hard to breathe, and he knew it wasn't just the effects of the smoke. He had let those men take off with his brother, and he now had no idea where they were. Watson picked up, and Don spoke abruptly. "This is Eppes. We found the Prius abandoned; we think the fugitives might have switched vehicles somewhere between you and the fire command post, using the smoke as cover. We need to get a new roadblock set up further down 18, just before Arrowhead Farms. Can you guys cover that?"

Watson's voice crackled over the line. "Roger that. We've got three cars there already, and a local sheriff. We'll call up more."

"Make sure you stop and search each vehicle," Don directed. "They may be hiding in an SUV with a firefighter, or one of them may be posing as a firefighter. Just to be safe, you'd better set up another roadblock up your way, in case they turned around and headed north."

"Okay, I'm signing out, and calling now." The phone went dead, and Don flipped it shut. Watson sounded as exhausted as Don felt. He stared at the phone and sighed. Wright was the last person on earth he wanted to talk to right now. His phone buzzed in his hand and he started; then glanced at the number. Dad. _Oh, damn_ – no, there was one person he wanted to talk to less than Wright. He waited, pondering. It was best just to let the call go through to voice mail right now, he decided. He really couldn't delay reporting out to the A.D. any longer, and there was a piece of him that was clinging to the hope that they'd find the men who had his brother soon – that they'd get them at the road block. If he held off for just a little longer, maybe he wouldn't have to tell his father the awful truth - that Charlie had been kidnapped, and Don had no idea where he was.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

_Here's two in one day - I'm trying to make up for missing yesterday._

**Chapter 10**

"Okay, pop the trunk." The trooper handed Lenny back his driver's license, and Lenny nodded, coolly releasing the trunk latch. Sean exchanged a glance with him as the trooper stepped back to inspect their trunk and then returned to the window, waving them onward. "All right, move ahead."

Lenny pulled the car forward through the roadblock, and Sean fought down the urge to reach for his cell phone until they were past the watchful eyes of the troopers. He was glad they hadn't asked for his ID, too; by now he was sure they knew the identities of the escaped prisoners, and the last name Moran would have thrown up a red flag. 'Leonard Angelo,' on the other hand, wouldn't ring a bell. Sean was glad, too, they weren't doing body searches. A concealed weapon and a couple of hits of meth would have attracted just a bit of attention.

They were past the checkpoint now, and he jabbed at his speed dial, and waited impatiently for Tommy to answer. "Tommy, we got a problem. We just went through the roadblock down here by Arrowhead Farms – they're checkin' the vehicles out, poppin' trunks and everything. You ain't gonna make it through this. You need to pull off somewhere."

Tommy scowled at Charlie. "Yeah, like where?" he whined. "There ain't nothin' but dead-end gravel roads. Nothin' that goes through."

"Well, you're just gonna have to pick one and hide out there. They just set up this checkpoint – we saw 'em let some cars through the roadblock; then all of a sudden, a few cars ahead of us, they started checkin' IDs and vehicles. Someone must have called 'em. If you can get out of sight for a little while, they might think you made it through before they set up this check. After a few hours, I bet they give up on it, and just start checkin' the cars coming in again." Sean broke off and motioned to their left, as they hit a side road, and Lenny turned at the last minute, tires squealing. "Me and Lenny will pull over here, and keep an eye out. I'll let you know when they stop checkin' vehicles comin' out."

Tommy lowered the phone and yelled up to Jazz. "We gotta pull over, man. Pick the next road – they set up a checkpoint."

Jazz squinted through the windshield. "Looks like there's one to the right up here." He slowed, and a moment later, Charlie felt the vehicle turn and heard the crunch of the tires on gravel. His heart pounding, he listened as Tommy spoke into the cell phone.

"Okay, we pulled off on a gravel road on the right," Tommy said into the phone. He pushed the tarp back and sat up with a grunt of pain. "Goddamn shoulder…," He rode in silence for a moment, the phone to his ear. "There's a sign for some kinda construction place up here. Maybe we can hole up there."

"That's good," said Sean. "Try to hide your vehicle. I'll call you back and let you know when you can come out."

Tommy disconnected, and several minutes later, Charlie felt the SUV come to a halt. Jazz jumped out and opened the hatch, and Tommy clambered stiffly out. As soon as he was out of the vehicle, Charlie shifted over away from the body with a shudder, and using the side of the vehicle as support, pushed himself into a sitting position. It was dark, but from what he could see, they were on a desolate gravel road lined with scrub. The only sign of any buildings were the two in front of them – a good-sized office building and what looked like a large garage, with seven bays.

Jazz had disappeared, and moments later, a light came on in the garage and one of the bay doors lifted. Tommy shuffled to the back of the SUV. "Get out," he ordered, and Charlie scooted to the end of the rear bed, and slid out, on shaky legs. Jazz joined them, and he and Tommy looked at the body, half concealed by the tarp.

"Garage door was unlocked," remarked Jazz. "Probably left a couple doors open in case firefighters needed to get in. Looks like they moved out all of their equipment – the bays are all empty in the garage."

"Good," replied Tommy, rolling his injured shoulder uncomfortably. "They evacuated then – they probably won't be back for a while."

"Should we leave him in the SUV?" asked Jazz, indicating the body.

"Nah, he'll stink it up. We'll take him in the office and stick him somewhere until we figure out what to do with him." His eyes shifted toward Charlie, and he grinned, his face a demonic mask in the dim light. "He can keep Eppes company."

He stepped toward Charlie, and motioned with the pistol toward the office building. "Walk."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

It was close to 10:00 pm, but Wright answered immediately. To be truthful, he'd thought of checking with his SAC more than once during the last hour. Protocol decreed the agent in charge should report in on a field operation – the operative's superiors were not supposed to try to contact agents – a call to an engaged field agent could be distracting, maybe even dangerous, depending on what the situation was. So he'd held off, following protocol, and when the phone finally rang, he pounced on it. "Yes, Agent Eppes, I've been waiting for your call. What's the situation?"

Don took a deep breath, and began to deliver a condensed version of the events. "I told you earlier there were three prison escapees, and a possible hostage situation, all of them headed south on 18. We confirmed that. The State Highway Patrol set up a roadblock, but the fugitives holed up in a business, a packaging plant just before the checkpoint. Somehow - maybe they caught a glimpse of it – they knew the roadblock was there, and they pulled off at the packaging plant. They threatened to kill the hostage if we didn't remove the roadblock. I had Reeves negotiate."

He paused, as an image of Charlie's face, tense, scared, flashed though his mind. "Our consensus was they were desperate, and would die trying to escape if we rushed them, and take the hostage out with them. The fire was approaching, so we decided to let them out, and set up a roadblock further up the road. Before we could communicate that, one of the troopers rushed the building, killed one of the escapees, and wounded another. The remaining two men got back in the car with the hostage, and we had no choice but to let them go – we had no way to get a shot at the man covering the hostage."

"They ended up going south, right into a section of road closed by the fire. I followed with my team, but we lost them in the smoke plume. We found their car abandoned there; we now think they may be in another vehicle and we have another checkpoint set up further down on 18, just north of Arrowhead Farms. We are currently a few miles north of there, at a fire command center, so they should be between us and the roadblock. My team is being treated for smoke inhalation; as soon as they're done we're going to follow." He stopped, waiting for Wright's response. He could almost see the frown on his face.

"There was no way to take out the driver when they pulled out?"

"I thought of that," Don admitted. "I had no way of knowing how the man in the rear seat would react. He'd made it clear he would rather die than go back in – I was afraid if we cornered him, he'd take the hostage out with him. Reeves recommended we let them go and set up surveillance, give them some time to think about what they were doing." He paused nervously; then continued. "Sir, I'm not just calling to give you an update. I'm letting you know I'm taking myself off this one, and putting Reeves in charge."

"And why is that?"

"The hostage is Charlie." The words, spoken aloud, seemed to stick in his throat, and he choked back a cough.

There was dead silence for a moment. "When did you know this?"

"A few minutes before we reached the packaging plant. About two hours ago." Don stopped, wincing, knowing how this sounded.

"You're telling me you've been in charge up to this point – that you made the calls on this case until now?"

"Yes, sir," answered Don quietly. "I considered Reeve's recommendations, but I made the calls."

Silence again. When Wright spoke, Don could hear the frustration in his voice. "What was Charlie doing out there, anyway?"

"He was on his way back from a conference in San Francisco, and he apparently stopped to help – first at Santa Clarita, then at the Lake Arrowhead fire."

"At your direction."

"No, sir. He maintained it wasn't FBI work - he was working with the fire marshals."

"Maintained?"

Don sighed. "My team and I had a meeting with our arson experts at the Lake Arrowhead fire. When I got there, Charlie was talking with them. He and they swore it was a casual conversation. Charlie never applied for consulting status or for pay on this."

"It also means he had no documented clearance to be in the field at an investigation, am I right?"

"No, sir, he didn't. You're correct." Don replied, glumly.

"You seem to have a disconcerting lack of control over your staff, agent." Wright's voice was dry.

"Yes sir."

Wright's voice softened a bit. "Look, Don, I know we're talking about your brother here, and the fact that he ended up in the middle of this was more than likely driven by the most innocent circumstances, but you need to understand, this will not look good. You should have relinquished control, in fact, removed yourself entirely from the proceedings as soon as you knew your brother was involved. The fact that you had a consultant out in the field without clearance is not going to help the situation – whether or not he was actually consulting for us; the appearance is bad. You said you considered Agent Reeves' recommendations. Does that mean you followed them?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, that's something. I need you to remove yourself from the field, immediately, come into the office, and begin a report. I'll try to put the best spin on it I can, but I will tell you, how it's perceived will depend on how the situation turns out. If the team recovers your brother, you will at best get a slap on the hand, possibly a reprimand, at worst a short suspension. If something – more serious – happens to your brother, my superiors will likely feel compelled to take a more drastic action. In that case, it could cost you your career, although at that point, I'm sure that would be the least of your worries."

Don could hear sympathy in the Assistant Director's voice, but also concern and disappointment. He wasn't sure which of the three made him feel the worst. "Yes, sir. I'm going to let Reeves know she's in charge, and I'll be on my way in. I'll have her call you for direction."

Wright disconnected, and Don snapped the phone shut. His shoulders drooping with fatigue and dejection, he turned, and slowly made his way toward the ambulance, where his team was clustered. As demoralizing as it was to have his command and his decisions questioned, it was worse to be removed from the field. He'd known the chances of being allowed to continue under Megan's command were slim, but he hadn't realized how desperately he felt the need to be part of this. Leaving, going back into the office without Charlie, felt like desertion. His brother needed him, and he'd be stuck miles away, filling out reports. He'd never in his life felt so helpless, or so uncertain.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The key to the office building was under the proverbial mat, either the owners wanted to give the firefighters access, or they were lax when it came to security. Tommy pushed Charlie through the doorway as Jazz flicked on a light. The room contained a few metal desks and some file cabinets, and a water cooler stood in the corner, nearly full. An open doorway at the far end appeared to lead into a small kitchen area, and another on the back wall to a storage area. The floor was scuffed linoleum, the lights uncovered fluorescent rods, set in the ceiling. It suggested utility – the no-nonsense office of working men. Even so, it appeared bare somehow; then Charlie realized there were no computers on the desks. The owners had removed them along with their equipment in the garage.

Jazz disappeared behind them, and Tommy gave Charlie a jab with the pistol, herding him toward the door to the storage room. "In there," he commanded.

Charlie shuffled slowly, trying to flex his shoulders. The muscles in his shoulders and arms were screaming from the awkward position into which they'd been forced, his wrists were raw from the rough twine, and he was losing the feeling in his fingers. His cheek was sore and felt swollen, the cut inside still oozing small amounts of blood, producing a metallic taste in his mouth.

He moved reluctantly through the doorway and into the storage area, which was apparently a repository for files and parts alike; it was a good-sized room, but was filled with metal racks crammed with boxes. He heard noise in the outer room; then Jazz appeared in the storage room doorway behind them, facing backwards, panting with the effort of dragging the dead firefighter. He dumped him unceremoniously on the floor, and fished the ball of twine out of his pocket.

"On the floor," barked Tommy. Charlie turned to face him. He could see Tommy's entire upper sleeve was now drenched with blood, although it was no longer dripping. It appeared to be a flesh wound, but it did look like something that needed prompt medical attention. Maybe that would play in Charlie's favor.

Charlie sank to his knees and then shifted awkwardly to a sitting position, but he protested as Jazz approached him with the twine, figuring the man intended to bind his ankles. "Look, you don't need that anymore – on my wrists, either. My hands are going numb. There's no way out of this room except through that door-,"

"Shut up and lay down," growled Tommy. "There ain't no door to lock you in, and we don't need you sneakin' out if we try to catch some sleep."

Jazz pushed him over onto his side, and began wrapping the twine around his ankles. The dead firefighter was facing him, his face frozen in an expression of stupor, his mouth and eyes open, his tongue protruding slightly, his pupils already cloudy. Charlie twisted his neck, trying to look away, and caught Tommy's smirk of amusement. "What, you don't like your friend?" His eyes glinted, and he squatted, and flicked off the safety. "Maybe it'd be easier if you joined him." He stuck the pistol against Charlie's temple, hard, forcing his head against the cold linoleum. "What d'ya think, Eppes?"

Charlie's breath caught and he closed his eyes, his heart pounding. He heard Jazz's voice from somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. "I wouldn't, Tommy, we might still need him."

Charlie felt Tommy's grip shift on the pistol. "I don't know, Jazz," came Tommy's voice, soft, teasing. "I kinda think we should cut him loose. Bury him out back with the fireman. In fact, I think I'll off him right now. Say good-bye, Eppes."

Charlie felt a sensation of pure ice flash through him, and even as he closed his eyes, he felt his senses heighten. Sounds and sensation suddenly seemed strangely sharp, vivid. Was this how he would die, then? On a cold, dirty linoleum floor, in the middle of the night? He stiffened, trembling, his eyes shut tight, as Tommy pivoted the barrel, lining it up with the center of his temple, and through the barrel; he felt the hand tense as a finger found the trigger.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

_I know, that cliffie was mean. I'll make up for it, I promise. Eventually. _

**Chapter 11**

"BANG!" Tommy shouted.

Charlie jerked. It took him a moment to realize Tommy had withdrawn the gun and had dissolved in a fit of cackling laughter. Charlie's eyes fluttered open, and he drew in a shaky breath as Tommy stood. "_That'd_ make you piss yourself, eh, Jazz?" He chortled a little, then put the safety back on, and headed for the doorway. "Relax, Eppes, lucky for you my friend Jazz is right; we might still need you. Of course, if they take down the roadblock, you'll be history." He turned in the doorway and waved the pistol at Charlie. "And I could change my mind at any time – and shoot you just for the hell of it. Hey, Jazz; help me find somethin' to bind up this arm."

Jazz shuffled out behind him and turned off the storage room light, plunging the room in darkness, lightened only by the glow spilling in from the doorway. Charlie closed his eyes and let loose a deep shuddering breath. He opened them, and in the dimness, the firefighter seemed to be looking back at him, his mouth open as if to say, "_Join me_."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don reluctantly removed the oxygen mask, and handed it to the medic. Megan had gotten on the phone with Wright, and had gotten him to permit Don to stay until he was treated for smoke inhalation. Don knew she was trying to allow him to remain in the area long enough for them to recover Charlie; even though he wouldn't be part of the action, he could be there for his brother when it was over. His team had left for the roadblock nearly an hour ago, and Don's anxiety was rising. There couldn't possibly have been many vehicles to process – the only ones going through should have been departing fire volunteers.

He sat there waiting for a moment. He really couldn't leave for the roadblock until he got the all-clear from Megan; if he showed up in the middle of a standoff he'd be considered 'on the scene' – and Wright had made it clear that under no circumstances should he get anywhere near the action. So he was stuck, until – his phone buzzed, and he snatched it from his pocket, flipping it open. "Yeah, Megan."

"Don –," Megan paused on the other end, wondering how to put the news. She took a breath. "We've got nothing."

Don frowned, his heart pattering out unhealthy rhythm. "What do you mean; nothing?"

"We joined the search – checked all the vehicles coming through. David and Colby even went back up and down the road to see if there was anyone pulled over. They might have gone through before we could set up the checkpoint. There is a slight possibility they pulled off on a side road somewhere. Or they did take off on foot from the Prius. I'm sorry."

Don was silent for a moment, his heart dropping, his mind racing frantically. If the men had really gone through the checkpoint already, there was little hope for Charlie. They had to be still in the vicinity, they _had_ to… "We need to get people out in the area, check any back roads, driveways. We'll get searchers out on foot in case they did abandon the Prius -,"

"Don," Megan interrupted gently, "I know all that. I've already made arrangements, but we aren't going to be able to start a search until morning. We'll keep the checkpoint up in the meantime, and I ordered them to keep the checkpoint going at Twin Peaks, also, in case they somehow headed north. We've already got an APB out on Ricks' SUV, and someone stationed at his apartment in case he shows up. There's nothing more we can do tonight. You need to go in, as Wright ordered."

The words were unspoken, but Don wasn't deluded by their absence. '_You're off the case. This is no longer your call_.'

"Right," he said heavily. He didn't need to make her job any more difficult than it already was. "I'm leaving now. I'll see you at the checkpoint." He flipped the phone shut, thanked the medic, and headed for his SUV.

He was lost in thought, mired in fatigue, and he found himself at the checkpoint without clear recollection of the drive there. Megan waved off the troopers who were approaching him, and as Don rolled the window down she stepped toward the vehicle, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Get your report done, and get some sleep," she said, her eyes full of sympathy. "We'll find him."

He nodded; his voice suddenly hoarse. "Thanks," was all he could manage, and he drove the SUV through the checkpoint.

Colby and David raised a hand as he drove by, both of them noting the pale, tired face, the defeated expression. In silence, with heavy hearts, they watched him drive down the road, their eyes on his taillights long after he had passed.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Sean and Lenny followed the road they had turned onto up the ridge of a hill. As they had left the Lake Arrowhead region and gone south on 18, the elevation had dropped; the hills had become smaller. The small suburb of Arrowhead Farms was in fact relatively flat. Just outside it, however, a sizable ridgeline rose, running east-west. A land developer had put in a road along it, and parceled off pieces of property into good-sized lots. There were no houses yet, but in the headlights, Sean could see the painted stakes, which marked property lines, and an occasional partially cleared lot.

They came to a cul-de-sac on the left; the side of the ridge that looked back toward the way they had come. Sean ordered Lenny to pull down it, and they climbed out of the car to check the view. It was disappointing. Even though Sean knew they were not too far away from the checkpoint and they could see headlights on the highway from where they were, the lower part of the ridge hid their view of the roadblock. There were no lights, except for one twinkling on another ridge over a mile away across the highway, which went out as they watched. Sean shook his head. "Let's go up higher."

After several more yards of driving, the ridge and the road curved left, and it was becoming apparent they were nearly at the top. Another cul-de-sac, this one unpaved, appeared to their left, and they pulled over once more. This time they were rewarded. The curve of the ridge and the higher elevation had combined to reveal the checkpoint. It was almost discernable with the naked eye, and Sean had binoculars. In the headlights of the vehicles it was easy to see the checks were still in progress; he watched dourly as a trooper lifted the hatch of an SUV, inspected the inside, and closed it. "Damn," he muttered.

He had several unanswered calls on his cell phone, all of them from Dillon. It was now close to midnight. He knew he was going to have to let him know what happened, and now that they weren't moving and the situation wasn't changing as rapidly, he needed to make a report. His hand snaked into an inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a hit and tossed it back, ignoring Lenny's disapproving look. He was tired, he needed a lift, and he needed the courage the meth gave him before he talked to Dillon. He stood there taking in the night for a moment, as the rush came and washed through him, like a surge of electricity. He was invincible – the Morans were all invincible. He and Tommy would get out of this, as they'd gotten out of countless other scrapes over the years. His nose ran, and he sniffed and wiped it with a grin as he dialed Dillon's number.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don pulled into Charlie's driveway and sat in the darkness for a moment. He couldn't stay, he knew; he needed to get into the office, but he owed his father information first. Information which should be delivered in person, as reluctant as he was to do it. He sighed, opened the door, and slid wearily out of his SUV.

He found his father sleeping in an armchair, his head leaning awkwardly to one side; the house phone and his cell phone both by his side. He lowered himself on the edge of a seat across from him. "Dad."

Alan started in his chair, wincing as his stiff neck straightened. His expression changed immediately as he took in his older son. Don looked exhausted; he had smudges of dirt or ash on his clothing and face – ash, Alan surmised, because his son reeked of smoke. "Donnie – I've been trying to call you," he said, starting from the chair, his face filled with concern. His eyes traveled past him and swept the room. "Is Charlie with you?"

"Dad, sit down," Don said quietly, holding up a hand.

Alan sank back in his chair, his eyes searching Don's face. "What's wrong – where's Charlie?"

'_If only I knew_,' thought Don wearily. "Dad, there was an incident up by Lake Arrowhead this evening. Some prisoners working a fire line escaped, and made it up to the road." He stopped and looked at Alan, wondering how on earth he was going to get the words out. "Charlie - ," he began; then tried again. "Charlie was passing through in group of cars being escorted out. The men hijacked his car, and took him with them."

Alan's face drained of color, and his eyes locked on Don's, filled with intensity, with fear. "How do you know that – how do you know it was Charlie?"

Don's stomach churned with nausea. Somehow, relating this to his father was making it real, making it sound as awful as he'd known it really was, but had been trying to deny. "We had them holed up in a business on 18 for awhile – the state troopers blocked them in until my team and I could get there. I saw him, Dad. It's him."

Alan stared at him stricken, and his next words tumbled out in a panicked torrent. "Was he hurt? What's going on? Why aren't you trying to get him out?"

Don took a deep breath. Was he hurt? He had a vision of Charlie in the doorway of the packaging plant, his face bruised, a trickle of blood running down his chin. "I don't think he's hurt too badly, Dad – he was on his feet." The next words were the hardest, and he looked at his father, a desperate plea in his eyes. The situation defied comprehension, but somehow, subconsciously, he hoped his father would understand what had led him to this point. "We had to let them out of there; the fire was coming. We set up a roadblock further down, and took off after them, but we…" his voice trailed off, in shame and despair.

"You what?" prompted Alan, breathlessly.

"We – I – lost him."

Alan's heart skipped, a strange fluttering sensation, and he sat, stunned.

Don's shoulders slumped, and his eyes traveled toward the floor. "I'm sorry, Dad, I don't know – I lost them. They abandoned Charlie's car and switched vehicles, or took off on foot. They still have him. We don't know where they are."

The look of misery on his son's face finally broke through the shock, and Alan tried to marshal his thoughts. "So, what's being done, then?" Surely, people were working on this.

Don's voice was heavy. "They've got 18 blocked off at both ends, and in the morning they're going to send out searchers; go down the side roads, check out the area in case they're on foot. We can't do anymore tonight – we had all the available manpower on this all evening- they need a rest, and it's better to conduct the search in daylight." He broke off, realizing he was rambling, trying to rationalize what they were doing. '_As if I could rationalize this_,' he thought bitterly. How could he make sense out of any of it?

"Okay," said Alan, nodding, talking almost to himself, as if by speaking the word, he'd convince himself that waiting was a reasonable course of action. He lifted his eyes to Don's. "Okay, so you're here to get some rest, then -,"

"No, Dad, I need to go into the office. Wright wants me to submit a report as soon as possible. I – I'm off the case."

"Off the case," repeated Alan blankly.

"Wright pulled me off," said Don quietly, and the defeat in his eyes made Alan's heart drop. "Megan's in charge." He stood, and Alan could see exhaustion in every movement, in every line of his face. "You can reach me at work, and I'll let you know right away if anything changes."

Alan stood and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around his son. He could almost feel the misery oozing out of him, it was apparent in the halfhearted, one-arm attempt Don made at returning his hug. Alan embraced him fiercely for a moment, then stepped back, holding him at arm's length. "This was not your fault, Don. Escaped prisoners – it was something no one could have predicted. You need to understand that." He tried to speak with conviction but his voice wavered a bit, breaking on the last few words. The shock was wearing off, and pure terror was setting in. He tamped it down, and gripped Don's arms tightly. "You do your report; then get some rest. Things will be different in the morning. They'll find him."

Don nodded, but the desperate note in his father's voice wasn't lost on him. He knew, and now his father knew, how bad it really was. He turned and walked to the door. "I'll talk to you later," he said, as he opened it. Just before he stepped out, he caught a glimpse of Alan, standing in the glow of the lamp, and the fear in his father's eyes was a reflection of his own.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The first sensation Charlie was aware of was smell, followed immediately by pain. He grunted, flexed his hands, and opened his eyes, taking in the muted daylight streaming in through the doorway from the outer office windows. In spite of the fear and the pain, exhaustion had won, at least for a bit. He'd spent most of the night awake, finally succumbing to sleep in the small hours of the morning.

The smell of coffee floated in along with the sound of voices. It was mingled with the odor of something much less pleasant, and Charlie's eyes shifted over to the body. Since the firefighter's death, his body had become increasingly offensive. Charlie didn't really want to think about what exactly he was smelling; he just knew it was making him sick, and he felt a wave of nausea rising. He closed his eyes, trying to fight it down, concentrating on the voices in the other room.

He flexed his wrists again as he listened. Last night, as complete numbness claimed his hands, he had pulled his wrists outward against the twine as hard as he could, repeatedly; trying to get it to stretch, to give enough to allow circulation again. It had paid off, but at a price; the twine had given a bit, but so had the skin on his wrists. The rough binding had cut into them; he could feel trickles of blood running down his hands and fingers. Now, as he flexed them, he could feel wetness again; he had apparently broken open the wounds. The sensation was actually a relief; the fact that he could feel the wetness meant he had blood flow to his hands.

He shifted his aching body, trying to breathe through his mouth to keep from taking in the stench in the small room. He heard Jazz say, "The john's not working – they got the water shut off," then Tommy said, "Go out the back door – it's in the storeroom – I saw it last night."

Charlie shut his eyes and lay still, as Jazz tromped in through the doorway, muttering, "Damn…stinks."

He heard the sound of a sliding lock, then the door opened with a metallic thunk, and a burst of fresh air rushed in. The door clunked shut, and Charlie opened his eyes a bit; he could see a bit of the door on the other side of some storage racks. He shut his eyes again a moment later as the door opened again, and Charlie heard Jazz' feet tromp through the room.

"Man, I needed that," he exclaimed to Tommy. "I thought I was gonna explode." The voice was coming from the other room now, and Charlie cautiously opened his eyes again. Jazz' words made him realize how badly he needed to go himself, and how thirsty he was. He imagined he'd be hungry too, if it weren't for the smell.

"We gotta get rid of the stiff," Jazz went on, disgust in his voice. "He's startin' to reek."

"Yeah," replied Tommy. "I been waitin' to see what we're gonna do with the other one."  
His voice sounded tired and cross; it had lost its gloating tone from the night before. "I feel like hell. Think I'm getting' a fever or sumpin."

There was a silence. Then Tommy's voice came again. "What'd they have in the break room besides coffee?"

"Not much," said Jazz glumly. "A box with cracker packs in it – eight of 'em, I think, and an open pack of cookies."

"Get me a pack of crackers, will ya?"

Charlie heard movement – Jazz headed to the break room, then the crinkle of cellophane, overlaid with the sound of Tommy's phone. "Yeah, what's up?" Tommy said. "Christ, how long are they gonna keep it up?" Pause. "Yeah, Jazz just went outside, why?" Short pause. "You can see us? No kiddin'! Yeah."

Charlie heard feet coming his way and shut his eyes again. The back door opened again and stayed that way, and he snuck a peek through barely open lids. Tommy stood in the doorway, his head lifted, looking off into the distance; leaning against the frame for support. Blessed fresh air rushed into the room.

"Yeah – I can't make you out. You got binoculars, huh? You can see me, though, huh. Damn, I didn't know we were so close to the road block. On foot? I dunno; I'm not feelin' too great. And we'd hafta cross the highway. Maybe we should sit tight for a little bit, see if they open the road." He glanced over his shoulder, and Charlie shut his eyes, quickly.

"Yeah, we gotta get rid of the dead guy; he's startin' to stink up the place. What d'ya think we should do with the other one? That's what I thought – wait until we're sure the road is open, then get rid of him. We could dig a hole out back here; dump 'em both." Charlie swallowed, trying to fight the chill that ran down his spine.

"Okay, well maybe we'll dig the hole, and put the dead guy in it anyway. What? Whoa – what? Comin' up _this_ road?" The door clanged shut, and Charlie heard the lock slide, then rapid movement.

Tommy's voice came from the other room. "Jazz. Is the SUV hidden? There's someone comin'!"

"Yeah, I pulled it into a garage bay last night and pulled a tarp over it."

"Okay, look, I gotta hang up so we can get outta sight." The conversation ended, and Charlie heard frantic movements in the other room. "Turn off the coffee. We don't got no lights on – get in the back room – there ain't no windows in there."

Charlie opened his eyes as Tommy came in and squatted next to him. The storeroom walls were thin and apparently not insulated; Charlie could hear the sound of tires on gravel, then the slam of a vehicle door. "We got company," Tommy hissed at him, brandishing the pistol. "Keep quiet."

Jazz came in running, crouching, and dropped next to them. "He's here," he breathed. "Just one, a state trooper. He nosed around the garage, and took a peek in – he's headed this way."

"Grab him," ordered Tommy, in a half whisper, indicating Charlie with a wave of his pistol. "We don't need him yellin' out."

Jazz complied, pulling Charlie roughly against him in a sitting position. Charlie's tortured shoulders and arms protested, and he grunted in pain, as Jazz' hand clamped over his mouth. "Shut up," he hissed.

They sat, tense, hearts pounding, although different reasons were driving the rhythms. Charlie could hear someone trying the handle of the door in the other room, then a knock. His mind was racing, trying to weigh the outcomes. If he broke free somehow and called out, he ran the risk of being shot. It was small though. If they were found, they'd need him again as a hostage – his value would rise. If, on the other hand, the officer left, thinking everything was secure here, that the place was empty, Charlie's value as a hostage would decrease, and the moment the road was opened, it would drop to nothing.

His best option would be to resist, he decided, and the optimal time to do it would be when he knew the officer had the best chance of hearing him – when the man tried the back door. He forced himself to relax, to lie limply against Jazz. It worked; he could feel Jazz' hold loosen slightly as they strained to listen. There was a roaring noise which was interfering – it was distant, but getting closer, and as the sound neared, Charlie realized it was a helicopter. Searchers were out; the idea was comforting – but the noise had come at the worst possible time. He fixed his eyes on the door, trying to get a visual clue in case the chopper drowned out the sound of the man trying the latch.

'_Go away_," he pleaded to the helicopter, mentally. "_Not now_…" The sound was louder, beginning to crescendo, and then he saw it. Without the slight visual, the chopper was so noisy he probably would have missed the rattle of the bar – but it was moving; the man was out there. With a sudden heave, he twisted his torso out of Jazz' hold, but at the movement, Jazz tightened his grip on Charlie's face, pressing his head against his chest, as he struggled to regain a hold on his upper body.

The noise peaked overhead, as Charlie felt a heavy weight on his legs; Tommy had sat on them, trying to pin him down. He yelled under Jazz' hand, and had it been quiet outside, it might have been enough. A fist plowed into his gut, stealing his breath as the chopper began to swing away, the cavitation from the blades making sounds like rapid gunshots. By the time it faded away, the trooper was back in his vehicle; Charlie could hear tires on gravel, as he sagged, defeated, in his captor's arms.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Don jerked awake, startled by the ding of the elevator in the quiet office. He straightened and looked at his watch, as he cast a glance over his shoulder. It was 9:00 on Saturday, and two agents had come in to try to make some headway in the case load. They were followed by a group of three more, and slowly the office began to fill up. Don rose wearily and headed for the restroom. He felt like hell, and the mirror over the sink confirmed that he looked like he felt. He splashed some cold water on his face, and headed back out, pausing at his desk, looking at his phone for just a moment. Thinking better of it, he went into the nearest conference room and shut the door.

There he paused again, wondering if he would wake Megan if he called her. She'd shown up at the office after he had the night before, apparently to put together her own report for Wright. She'd left at around four a.m., with a sympathetic pat on Don's shoulder. He'd already finished his report, but didn't feel like sleeping, so he stayed, going through updates on the other cases, the ones he was still in charge of, trying to keep his mind occupied. It was an un-winnable battle, and after three fruitless hours he found himself staring blankly at the opposite wall, wondering where Charlie was, how he was doing, visions of his tense, scared face flashing through his mind. It was the last thing he remembered until the chime of the elevator a few minutes ago.

His finger hovered over the keypad; then starting punching; seemingly moving of its own accord. Megan answered on the second ring, and Don could tell from the background noise and the timbre of her voice, raised to speak over the wind, that she wasn't home in bed. "Megan, how's it going?"

"Okay," she said, in a resigned tone which said she had no news. "There's nothing yet. We have troopers out searching any pull-offs and back roads, and a couple of choppers are out looking over the terrain. They're really on fire duty, but in between dumps of flame retardant, they're combing the area. Although from what the firefighters on the line are telling us, taking off on foot from the Prius was not a viable option – the fire would have caught them for sure. So we've shifted our approach. The helicopters are looking for any vehicles which might have been abandoned off-road, and the troopers are looking for the same on the back roads. We're assuming they had to have taken a vehicle out of there."

She was keeping it positive, Don knew. There was no evidence Charlie and his captors hadn't taken off on foot, but if they had, they'd be dead by now. The only way to confirm that would be to search for charred remains after the fire had been contained. His throat, scratchy from smoke, restricted. "How about Ricks' vehicle? Did he turn up?"

"No," she replied. "Nothing from the APB on his vehicle, and he never showed up at his apartment. Could be he's holed up with a girlfriend somewhere, but we've given the vehicle description to the chopper pilots and the troopers. He's not answering his cell phone. We're running a trace on it now – and Charlie's – it wasn't in the Prius. Where are you? Did you get any sleep?"

"At the office," he said, answering both questions. "Did you?"

"No," she said, and he could imagine the sheepish twist of her mouth. "I came back out here. I sent Colby and David back – they dropped Charlie's car off for the lab people and went home to get a little rest. They'll come out later and spell me. Did you hear anything from Wright yet?"

"No." He wondered how that was going. Surely, Wright had spoken to his superiors by now; it was noon in Maryland.

"I recommended in my report that they put you back on my team."

"Thanks," he said, feeling suddenly humbled by her unwavering loyalty.

"Don't thank me," she said, a bit archly. "I can use all the help I can get." Her tone softened. "Charlie's one of us – you know we'll do everything we can."

"I know," he said, his throat tightening again. "Thanks – I'll talk to you later." He hung up and stared wearily out the window at his desk for a moment. He should head out for a while, he knew, and get some rest. He really needed a shower and a change of clothes, and he was sure his father wanted an update. The only problem was; he had nothing to tell him.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Sean sat glumly in Dillon's office, as his brother paced behind his desk. Dillon was a formidable-looking man; at five foot eleven he wasn't inordinately tall, but he was built, with broad shoulders, all of it muscle. His strong nose was topped by piercing blue eyes, and dark hair like Tommy's. Sean was a washed-out version of the two of them, his blue eyes dulled by gray, his hair a mousy shade of brown. He and Tommy had Dillon's height, but not his build – both of them wiry, bordering on skinny.

Sean had come down from his high and was itching for another hit; his leg bounced up and down, and he plucked at the skin on his arm. That was miserable enough, but to have to endure Dillon's scathing remarks was unbearable. Even though Dillon directed them at both him and Lenny, who slouched against the wall at the back of the office, everyone in the room knew who had authored the escape plan. Sean bore the indignity; he had no choice, but inside he was seething. How could Dillon call him out like this in front of Lenny?

"You're sure the police don't know they're there?" Dillon asked, swinging his gaze toward Sean.

"Yeah." Sean had already gone over this, but he repeated his story. "I watched it with the binoculars. The trooper went up the road, looked inside the garage, then poked around the office, but he didn't go in. Then he got in his car and drove away. We stayed and watched for a couple more hours, but no one else went near the road, so that meant he must have reported he didn't seen nuthin' suspicious. They're safe for now. We just gotta figure out how to get 'em outta there."

"What if they hiked to where you were with your car?"

"It's kind of risky," Lenny spoke up. "They'd have to go at night to keep the choppers from spotting them. Plus, they'd have to cross the highway. They'd hit road not too far from the roadblock."

"I don't know if Tommy's up to it," Sean added. "His shoulder's hurtin'; he says he's not feelin' too good. I don't think the bullet wound is too bad, but I think maybe he's getting' an infection. I think he'd rather try to drive out. If we waited another day, I'd bet they'd take down the roadblock. They'll get done searchin' the area and when they don't find anything, they won't have any reason to keep up the checkpoint. Jazz can put on the fire gear and just drive out."

Dillon frowned. "What about the hostage and the body?"

"Jazz is diggin' a hole right now, behind the place, in between chopper runs. They're gonna bury the dead guy there. They can go either way on the hostage – they can take him out alive as insurance and get rid of him later, or they can off him and bury him with the other guy. I'm thinkin' if they take down the roadblock, they don't have no need for him anymore. Although he could still end up valuable – he's some kind of FBI consultant Tommy said, name's Charles Eppes. His brother's a fed – Tommy told me he was at the warehouse, said he was the agent in charge."

Dillon stared at him. "Are you kiddin' me? Tommy's got a fed's brother for a hostage?" He snorted in disgust. "This just gets better and better. You realize if they make the connection, they're gonna come after all of us, the business, everything."

Lenny spoke up. "There's nothing to tie me to you, as far as they know. Even if they look at you and Sean, they won't know to look at me. There won't be anything to connect me to you, to lead them to what I'm doing, and your stuff is all legit. I'll make sure Mick knows what's going on and have him start monitoring the computer, in case they start digging."

"All right," said Dillon, his voice turning decisive. "Here's what we're gonna do. We need to keep tabs on what's happening with Tommy. Sean, you can visit that lookout area you've got, but don't spend a lot of time there. We'll put a man on it instead, maybe one of Lenny's people. If the feds come asking questions, you need to be available. The prison called me first thing this morning and told me about the escape, so it's okay that we know Tommy's at large, but we need to make them think we have nothing to do with it. How bad is Tommy hurt? Can he hold out for another day or so?"

"I think so," said Sean slowly. "He says his shoulder's not bleedin' too much – just hurts like hell."

"Okay, then, we're gonna try to wait the police out. Tonight, I want you to send a guy in with different plates for their vehicle, some clothes, and fake driver's licenses for both of 'em. Don't have your guy drive in – have him hike across to them. When they do come out, they'll need that stuff." He fell silent for a moment, thinking of his youngest brother, wounded and in pain.

He crossed the room and stood in front of Sean, who stood as he approached. Dillon grasped him by the upper arms, and looked into his brother's eyes meaningfully. "It's a bad situation, but we need to come through, for Tommy's sake. If we stick together, we'll get through this."

Sean nodded, his eyes filled with new conviction. Dillon would make this right. Dillon always made it right. The flood of relief that surged through him was so potent, for a moment, he almost didn't need the meth.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Amita, Larry and Alan were on their feet as soon as Don entered. He'd seen Amita's car in front of Charlie's house, and his heart had sunk. He honestly hadn't thought about what the news of Charlie's kidnapping would do to her, to Larry – his mind hadn't made it beyond the immediate consequences, the effect on their father. All of them had been shaken by the attack on Charlie a few weeks ago while he was working on the Parks case, and this was worse, so much worse. In fact, Don really hadn't decided if they should be told just yet. Wright was trying to keep the story out of the press, to keep the added pressure of public scrutiny from goading his superiors into taking more severe action against Don than they might have otherwise. Don realized though, from the looks on their faces, whether or not to tell them was no longer a decision; Alan must have broken the news.

They watched him anxiously as he crossed the room. Amita was twisting her hands nervously, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, and appeared to be just barely holding it together. Larry looked as though he'd seen a ghost, his face pale and frightened. As for Alan – his father appeared wan, exhausted. Don stopped in front of Amita, and she impulsively embraced him. He hugged her back, a bit surprised, patting her back awkwardly. "Hey," he said softly, and when she stepped back, he saw she had lost the battle with her tears. She looked at him beseechingly through wet lashes. He knew she was praying he would deliver good news, but he had none to give.

"They haven't found them yet," he said heavily. "They've got men searching the area, troopers and choppers are out, and Wright's getting Washington to download some satellite images. The roadblocks are still up." He looked at Larry. "Megan's still at the checkpoint – I just talked to her."

"Is he hurt?" Amita's voice was tremulous.

Don paused, his eyes flickering toward Alan. "He had a little blood running down his chin when I saw him, and the side of his face looked bruised. He might have tried to fight them. Other than that, though, he looked okay – he was on his feet, he seemed fully aware…" No need telling them Charlie's hands had been bound behind him, about the lines of pain and desperation in his face. No need to burden them with the mental picture he carried with him, like a lead weight. "You need to keep this to yourselves for now," he continued. "We haven't released this to the press yet. Megan said she was going to call Millie and the dean – but we're hoping to have him back before the weekend is over."

He phrased it as though Charlie would be happily trotting back to campus on Monday, although he knew better. Even if they were lucky enough to find him, Charlie would need time to deal with this. He mentally chided himself for the thought, for the "even if," which had crept into his mind. They _were_ going to find him. Charlie was going to be okay. He had to be. He watched as they nodded, relief flooding their faces, disgusted with himself for leading them on. He was telling them what he wanted to happen, without any reason to think that it would.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

_Don has been chafing on the sidelines here - I'm trying to treat this realistically from a procedural standpoint - he'll get drawn in soon (and painfully) enough..._

**Chapter 13**

David and Colby exchanged a glance, and looked back at Megan. It was late afternoon and she'd been at the site all day; she looked disheveled and exhausted. "They found the cell phones," said Colby.

"And?" prompted Megan.

"They were both found by the side of the road; Charlie's was up at the site where the trooper was shot – where Charlie was kidnapped. They must have tossed it right away."

Megan drew her brows together, thinking. "Don had gotten a phone call from Charlie right about that time, but Charlie wasn't on the other end. The kidnappers must have stopped him from calling. What about the other phone?"

"GPS tracked it to the stretch of road just after the fire command center. It was still transmitting up until sometime after two a.m., when the fire went through the area. After that they lost it – but I'd bet it had been dumped too."

Megan's face transformed, as a spear of excitement shot through her. "You realize what that means?"

David nodded. "Yeah. To get past the command center meant they had to have taken a vehicle out – and not just any vehicle – since it was Ricks' phone, it meant they had Ricks' SUV. It had to have gone down where we found the Prius."

Megan spoke slowly as she thought aloud. "So they either are holding Ricks hostage, or they killed him." She knew there was a chance they could very well have killed Charlie by now, but she refused to entertain that option. "We didn't see a body near the Prius, but we didn't have much of a chance to look around. However, based on that, we need to revise the APB – get out info that one of the kidnappers may be driving Ricks' SUV, and there may now be two hostages involved." She shook her head. "I still don't understand how they got Ricks' vehicle out of here. We were just minutes behind them, and we called to put up the roadblock right after we got through."

"Have the patrols finished checking out the side roads?" asked Colby.

She nodded, frowning. "Yeah. Everything that remotely resembles a road between here and the Twin Peaks roadblock has been checked."

"What if they went off-road?" David conjectured.

Megan sighed and shook her head. "I guess it's a possibility, but the choppers have been looking for vehicles. In this area they'd probably have spotted one – there aren't any trees tall enough to hide a vehicle. If they got past us and went north toward Twin Peaks, they'd be in a wooded area; then maybe they'd be able to hide one off-road."

"Even here," said Colby, "they could probably find some thick chaparral and cover the top of it with brush. We hid tanks from aerial surveillance like that in Afghanistan." He looked at her. They were all clinging to the unspoken hope that the SUV was somehow still in the area. If it had made it through one of the checkpoints, they had nothing to go on, other than the APB on Ricks' vehicle, which had yielded nothing. Worse yet, it would mean Charlie's chances for survival were slight. "So you're leaving the roadblocks up, right?"

She sighed. "Yeah – I want to, but the checkpoints are using up resources. We have to be able to justify it." She thought for a minute. "I'll tell them we need time to go over the satellite surveillance shots before we can take them down. I'll get the choppers to make some more rounds too – to look for an SUV off-road, possibly camouflaged. I need one of you guys to get back in the office and start hitting those satellite images."

"I'll take it," Colby stated firmly.

"I'll spell you for a while," offered David, looking at Megan. "You need some rest."

She smiled at him wanly. "If my brains weren't mush, I'd tell you no." The smile faded. "But I can't afford not to think straight right now. I'm going to take you up on it, but you'll be sorry you offered."

"Why's that?"

"You need to call Don in a half hour – he asked for an update."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie held his breath, gagging, as Jazz mopped up the mess left from the body with some towels he'd found, pushing them around with a broom, a look of revulsion on his face. Jazz had spent the better part of the day digging a hole behind the office; Charlie could hear the occasional chink of a shovel against rock outside. It was slow going; apparently, the ground was rocky and hard, and every time a chopper was heard, Jazz had quickly thrown some brush in the hole to camouflage it, and hurried back in wiping sweat from his brow.

He had ignored Charlie, giving him no more notice than a piece of furniture, to Charlie's infinite relief. After his attempt to call out to the trooper, Tommy had been incensed. He had hit Charlie with a blast of profanity and the butt of his pistol until Jazz had stopped him. Fortunately, the smell of the corpse had driven them from the room, and shortly after, had driven Jazz to the shovel. Charlie had lain there, fighting the pain from the blows and his restraints, battling the growing despair.

For it was clear to him now the people who were searching for him – the trooper, the choppers, Don – had no plan, had no idea where he was. For a few hours after the trooper had been there, he'd had hope the man had seen something, anything, suspicious and a rescue team would appear. As time went on, that prospect had faded, and with it, any hope of rescue. The place they were in had undoubtedly been crossed off some kind of checklist, and no one would look here again. Now his captors had dug a grave, and it was only a matter of time before he joined the firefighter at the bottom of it.

His nose wrinkling, Jazz pushed the towels onto a flattened cardboard box and carried them outside. He left the door ajar and sweet air rushed into the room, although it still was permeated with the scent of death. Charlie had no idea how long he still had to live, but he did know he desperately needed to relieve himself, and he was almost painfully thirsty. The physical sensations were enough to push aside fear, and when Jazz tromped back into the room, Charlie spoke. "Please, I need -,"

He stopped as Jazz halted and looked at him; then Charlie swallowed and continued. "I need to go out." He paused, trying to read Jazz's face. "And I need water. Please."

Tommy heard him; his voice came from just outside the storeroom door. "Screw him. He don't need nuthin'."

Jazz hesitated a moment, then began to walk toward Charlie, grabbing a box cutter from the shelf. He squatted, and called out over his shoulder, "I just cleaned up one mess in here; I don't need another one."

The razor edge cut through the layers of twine around Charlie's feet, and he turned a little, so Jazz could reach his hands. He felt the twine give, and then bit his lip to stifle a cry of pain as Jazz tugged on the strands; they were stuck to the raw skin on his wrists. As he brought his hands in front of him, the muscles in his shoulders contorted in a spasm, and a groan escaped him.

"Take your shoes off," ordered Jazz, and Charlie reached forward, wincing, trying to work his fingers, as he pried off his shoes and socks. His wrists were a raw mess, oozing and bloody. Jazz stood, grabbed his arm, and hauled him to his feet. "Don't try nuthin.'"

The admonition was unnecessary; Charlie felt weak and wobbly, and when he got outside, he found the reason for the shoe removal. The ground was hard and rocky; he could barely stand to walk on it. Any attempt to run would result in cut and bleeding feet.

The area was surrounded by scrub and low growing trees, verging on desert. In the distance, Charlie could see the rising hills, and behind them, smoke. The scrub had been cleared away from the buildings, leaving arid rocky ground, broken only by the large hole and the mounds of dirt piled beside it. As Charlie limped past it, he could see the hole had been filled with just enough dirt to cover the body, so it wouldn't be visible from the air. There was plenty of room left for another corpse, he thought with a shudder.

Jazz had pulled piles of scrub around it, and had thrown a bit of brush in the hole. From the air, if one looked hard enough, he might be able to make out the excavation, but from a chopper in motion, it would be nearly impossible to spot, especially since the searchers' eyes would be intent on picking out vehicles or moving bodies.

Jazz led him to the edge of the brush and stepped back. Charlie was uncomfortably aware of the eyes on his back, but the discomfort was trivial compared to his current physical needs. When he finished, Jazz stepped up immediately beside him and clamped a heavy hand on his arm, swinging him back toward the building as Charlie tried to pick his way, painfully, over the rough ground.

Inside the storage room, he stopped, but Jazz nudged him toward the doorway to the outer office. "In there," he said. "Go into the break room and sit on the floor."

"What the hell?" complained Tommy, as they stepped through the doorway. Charlie shot him a sideways glance. Tommy looked bad – pale, his lank hair stringy, his eyes glassy with fever.

"He can sit in there while we're awake," replied Jazz. "There's no door to the outside. He gave Charlie a shove through the break room door. "Sit," he commanded and turned around.

Charlie stepped into the room, out of view of Tommy. Out of sight, out of mind – he hoped. He surmised that Jazz was trying to give him a little relief from his bindings by putting him in a room without an outside door, and it was apparent Tommy didn't seem to share Jazz' benevolence. He sank slowly, stiffly to the floor, taking in the room as he did, looking for anything that might give him some kind of advantage. There was nothing, apparently. The room contained a sink and a small countertop, a coffeemaker, a few cabinets, and a small table with two chairs. In fact it was so narrow, it wasn't much more than a corridor. Beyond it was a short hallway, which led to a small bathroom. No windows, no other egress. A dead end.

He carefully leaned his back against a cabinet and stretched his aching arms in front of him, trying to ignore the complaining muscles in his shoulders and back. He lowered them quickly, defensively as Jazz appeared in the doorway with a large plastic cup of water. "Here," he said brusquely, offering him the cup. "Now quit complainin'."

Charlie took it gratefully, taking care to offer a murmured 'thank you.' Better to stay on this man's good side. He tried to drink slowly, but found it impossible; the water tasted sweet and felt cool on his parched throat, and he gulped it down, eyes closed. It was heaven, but it wasn't nearly enough. He handed the cup back, afraid to ask for more, but Jazz must have read the situation, because he took it and headed back out to the water cooler, and returned with another cup. He looked at Charlie. "Hungry?"

Charlie reluctantly pulled the cup from his mouth to answer with a nod, and Jazz turned for the office again. He trod back across the room and rummaged, with a crackle of cellophane, for a pack of crackers. Tommy's head jerked up from a nod, and he scowled. "You ain't givin' him those. There ain't hardly enough for us."

Jazz paused, and then put the crackers back and shrugged, and headed for the water cooler once more, pouring them each a cup. He stumped back, handed one to Tommy and sank down with a groan. "Damn, that ground was hard."

Tommy eyed him. "You fill the hole back up?"

"Not all the way. I put some brush around it so the choppers won't see it."

Tommy nodded with approval, and eyed Jazz speculatively. "You know, we could use a guy like you in the business."

Jazz shot him a glance, his face impassive. "What business?"

Tommy's face cracked in a grin, for the first time since the night before. "My family's got lots of businesses, but there's this one – the set-up's sweet. We got this big chain of meth labs – little ones, but lots of 'em-,"

Jazz interrupted him, with a meaningful look at the break room door. "You sure you want to talk about that here?"

Charlie sat silently, as Tommy's smug voice floated in from the other room. "Hell, it don't matter. We're gonna kill him anyway. If not here, then when we get past the checkpoint." Fear made Charlie's heart twist, but he forced it down, trying to listen as Tommy continued.

"Anyway, what I was sayin' – instead of few big labs, we got these little ones, tucked away in houses in normal neighborhoods, like. They all feed small distribution points – places where there's normally people comin' and goin'. That way, you don't have a bunch of people comin' in and out of the houses, makin' the neighbors suspicious. We stick a couple of guys in a house, give 'em regular jobs, and in their off hours, they make the meth for us and deliver it to the distribution points. We pay their rent; they're makin' money from the legit job and some off the meth, so they're happy."

He took a swig of water, and continued. "Plus, we get the property as an investment. If we decide to change a location, we just sell the house. We make more in these little places in a month than a big lab makes in a year. We set it up in Philly, and it did so good, we did the same thing out here. It'd be perfect for you – we could get you a new ID, a job. You could start over, man. Build up a new identity, and if you wanted, you could move after a while. It'd be perfect."

Charlie waited, listening. He hoped somehow, Jazz would decline the offer – accepting it would put the man just a bit more under Tommy's control. It would make him a little less likely to argue when Tommy decided Charlie had lived long enough. His heart sank as he heard Jazz' reply.

"Sounds good. So how would I get in on this?"

Charlie heard triumph in Tommy's tone, and he could almost see the smirk on his face. "It's a family business, man. You gotta get a recommendation from one of the family – and you're talkin' to him."

"Count me in, then," said Jazz. "If we get out of this."

"Oh, we'll get out of it," replied Tommy confidently. "No sweat."

Charlie closed his eyes and tried to fight the hollow feeling in his gut. It had been there since Jazz had started digging that morning, and grown from a gnawing fear to a terrifying certainty. He was never going to leave this place. He didn't know how he knew it, but he could feel it, just as he felt the pain from his injuries; it was as tangible as the hard floor on which he sat. He was certain somehow, that he was destined to be buried in that hole.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Charlie awoke on the floor of the storeroom, and just lay there for a moment, too sore and weak to move. It was – what day was it anyway, he wondered? Sunday. It had to be Sunday.

He'd been allowed to stay in the break room unfettered for a few hours the day before. As night fell, however, Jazz had herded him back into the storeroom and bound his ankles and tortured wrists again. He'd gotten another cup of water, but when he asked for food, he found that Jazz' mood had apparently soured with the interminable wait, and all Charlie got was a gruff admonition to 'shut up.'

He was definitely feeling the lack of food by now; he felt weak and dizzy. The water had been barely enough; he could tell he was dehydrated. His lips were cracked, and he could scarcely generate enough saliva to moisten his mouth. His muscles went into painful contractions every time he tried to move, so he stayed motionless, as the events of the night before came back to him.

A man had come in the middle of the night, on foot from the sound of it. Tommy and Jazz had apparently been expecting him, and Charlie had listened to them talk through the door. The man had brought a fresh cell phone, clothing, sandwiches, a set of license plates for the SUV, and fake IDs for both of them. He relayed instructions that they were to wait until the checkpoint came down, and then make their escape. Then the man left, taking what was left of Charlie's hopes with him.

He'd fallen into a fitful sleep, his dreams haunted visions which featured dark pits of earth, and shovelfuls of dirt that landed on him, suffocating him. More than once he woke up gasping, disoriented. Now, from the look of the light coming from the other room, it was morning. He blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs, as Tommy's voice floated in through the doorway.

"I ain't gonna be able to hold out too much longer," Tommy was whining, talking on the cell phone. His voice sounded hoarse, tired. "I got an infection or somethin' – I need a doctor." There was a pause. "Yeah, well, call me as soon as they pack it up. We need to get outta here."

On the other end, Sean flipped his phone shut, and looked anxiously through his binoculars. In spite of Dillon's suggestion that he stay away from the area, he'd come back to the site this morning, driving up the hill to the development he and Lenny had found on Friday. Sean was tight with Tommy, real close, they'd been through a lot together – things Dillon couldn't and wouldn't understand. Sean couldn't stand to think of his younger brother stranded, wounded, in pain. A fed had stopped by with routine questions for him and Dillon yesterday, and they'd provided alibis – Sean's faked, of course. Sean figured they wouldn't be back, at least not today.

So he'd driven out to the site and up the hill to the last cul-de-sac in the fledgling development, and set up camp with his binoculars, alternating surveillance between Tommy's building, far across the highway, and the roadblock almost below him. He focused on a trooper, fuming, as the man pulled over yet another vehicle, asked a few perfunctory questions, and then sent it on with a lazy wave. Even the troopers were getting tired of the checks. When were they going to finally close this down? Poor Tommy, sitting there for over two days - it was the third day since his escape - in pain, sick, with a bullet in his shoulder. Muttering to himself, Sean tossed down a hit of meth without even thinking about it, and swung the binoculars back to the buildings on the opposite hills.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan stepped off the elevator and paused for a moment, surveying the bullpen. The sweet smell of doughnuts wafted up from the box he was holding, as his gaze roved over Don, Megan and David, all busy at their desks. They somehow managed to generate an air of both tension and fatigue – he could see the weariness in their faces, in the set of their shoulders. It was offset by the intensity in their eyes as they scanned computers, and jabbed at phone pads. He shuffled forward; not certain if he should be here. If Don were in charge, he wouldn't think twice about coming here, but he wasn't sure how Megan would take it. God knew; he wouldn't want to throw off the person who was in charge of finding his youngest son.

He'd made it into their line of view and he held up the doughnuts, his eyebrows rising along with them, as if they were attached to the box. "I brought breakfast," he said, and relaxed a little at Megan's and David's grateful looks. Don tried to look appreciative, but failed utterly. His older son's face was tight with worry, and Alan felt his own heart dip at the sight. No progress, apparently.

He asked the question anyway, somehow getting it out around the restriction in his throat. "How's it going? Any news?"

Megan looked at him with a hint of regret. "Nothing yet – we've had a few leads on the SUV, but none of them panned out." Her cell phone rang, and she reached for it, scanning the number. "Excuse me." She looked at Don meaningfully as she answered, mouthing, "Wright," and stepped away, into a conference room.

"Anything else?" asked Alan, hopefully, as he set the box of doughnuts on David's desk.

Don answered with a scowl. "You'll have to talk to them," he grumped. "I'm not on this case." He actually knew every detail, his team had kept him up to speed, but after two days with no word from Wright concerning Megan's request to put him back on the team, after two days without any leads as to where his brother might be, his patience had been eroded. Paper thin. Non-existent. In fact, he was into the realm of impatience, and starting to progress to panic. He watched Megan anxiously through the conference room window, as she spoke into the cell phone. This was the phone call they'd been waiting for from Wright – he had no doubt. Although even if Wright put him back on her team, he had no idea what good it would do.

David glanced at Don, who seemed spellbound by the conference room, and answered Alan's question. "They've still got the roadblocks up, and Colby's in a conference room, looking at surveillance photos. We're hopeful they're still in the area." He kept the fact that hope was waning quickly to himself, along with the deadline they'd been given. The roadblocks were coming down by 6:00 p.m. – Megan had been unable to stall any longer, without proof the kidnappers were still contained in the vicinity.

Alan felt his heart sink, and tried to hide his despair with a small automatic smile of thanks. The team was doing exactly what they had been doing yesterday. That in itself was an admission they had nothing. The revelation was reinforced by Don; his son's face was impassive, but his eyes told it all, filled with frustration and desperation.

Megan stepped out of the conference room, her eyes on Don. "Don," she quietly, and he rose from his desk, with just a slight hint of apology on his face as he looked at his father.

"Excuse me for a minute, Dad," he said, and went over to join Megan in the conference room, who shut the door behind them.

Megan eyed him, and a small smile crept to her lips. "You're back on the team – conditionally."

Don felt surge of relief, but he didn't let it show. "Conditionally?"

Her smile faded just a bit. "Basically, this is still an open matter, but they've made an interim decision. They still have you in charge of all cases but this one. For this case, they are allowing you to be involved in tracking leads, but they drew the line at you participating in any field action which could involve a confrontation. It's a pretty routine call, actually." She flicked a look at the door, and leaned closer. "Actually, Wright worded it very carefully. If you read between the lines, if something went down, I'd be allowed to have you on site, as long as you didn't participate in the action. If we find Charlie, you can be there with us."

Don took a deep breath, and nodded. It was better than he'd hoped for.

Her brow furrowed, and she studied him for a moment. "Wright told me that Walsh, the internal affairs guy, wanted you suspended, but Wright and the director vouched for you. I guess Walsh was primarily upset that you didn't pull yourself off when you found the kidnapping victim was Charlie, but he also thought it looked bad that Charlie was out there without paperwork. They interviewed the fire marshals, who both said Charlie made it clear he was there on his own time. They also spoke to George Thornton, the arson expert, and he told them Charlie had tried to tell him he wasn't cleared to consult, but George talked him into a quick confirmation. All of those statements agree with your report." She paused.

"But," Don said, watching her face.

She sighed. "There will still be some sort of disciplinary action, internal affairs insisted on it, but they're waiting until we find Charlie. They said he's the final confirmation. Wright said if we find him relatively unharmed, and he corroborates the other stories, you can at least expect a letter in your file. If he's badly hurt, internal affairs may insist on something more stringent, maybe suspension."

She didn't bring up the possibility that Charlie might be found dead, and she didn't need to. If that happened, Don already knew from Wright he could be facing the loss of his job, but he also knew, at that point, he wouldn't care. He pushed the thought away. He would deal with the fallout when the time came. Right now there was work to do, and he was back on the team. He looked at her. "Okay, then, what do you want me working on?"

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Colby flicked through the surveillance shots for the fourth time. There were dozens of them, at least three shots each of various sites, and he'd been through them more than once, each time concentrating on a different quadrant. The door opened behind him, but he ignored it, his eyes scanning the screen, until he heard Alan Eppes' voice.

"I don't mean to interrupt, Colby," said Alan, as he set the box of doughnuts on the table, "but I thought you might want breakfast while you work."

Colby leaned back, and shot him a look of gratitude. "Thanks," he said, reaching for a doughnut. "Doughnuts never fail to inspire me."

Alan's chuckled, but it faded quickly as his eyes strayed to the screen, which displayed an aerial shot of two buildings fronting a gravel road. They were surrounded by nothing but scrub. Colby gestured with the pastry. "I'm reviewing satellite images of the area." He took a big bite of doughnut; then straightened suddenly, peering at the screen. It took him a moment to remember to chew, and he did so slowly, apparently mesmerized by the image on the monitor.

Alan caught his expression, and his gaze sharpened. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure," Colby mumbled through his bite of doughnut, and reached for the mouse, the remainder of the pastry forgotten in his hand. "Wait a minute." He clicked and brought up a view of the same two buildings. "There. You see that?" He clicked again, and again, back and forth between the two shots.

Alan stared intently at each of them, puzzled. "No – I – I guess I don't."

Colby tossed the doughnut on the table, bolted from his seat and headed for the door. "Stay here, I'll be back in a minute." He turned, walking backwards for a minute. "What'd I say? Doughnuts inspire me!" he exclaimed with a triumphant grin, and then whirled and headed for the other conference room.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Megan and Don both looked up as the door burst open, preceded by a knock which sounded more like a punch. Colby barreled in, pulling himself up short, his eyes charged with excitement. "I think I've got something," he declared, and he immediately turned and made for the other conference room, not waiting for a response.

Alan stepped back as Colby re-entered purposefully and sat at the monitor, followed by Don, Megan, and David, who gathered behind him.

Colby grabbed the mouse and positioned the pointer behind one of the buildings. The area he was pointing ran along the back of the building, and had been cleared of scrub. "You see that?" he said, and they all peered closely at the area.

"No," admitted Megan.

"Exactly," replied Colby. He clicked the mouse, bringing up the other view of the buildings, and pointed again. "How about that?"

They stared again, and Don frowned. "It just looks like scrub."

"It is."

Don shook his head. "Then what's the deal?"

Colby pulled up the original shot. "The deal is; it's not there in this shot, taken yesterday morning." He flicked back to the second view. "It _is_ there in this shot, taken yesterday afternoon. Those bushes didn't grow in eight hours."

David squinted at the screen. The shots were taken from high altitude, and the scrub in the second picture was barely visible. "How in the heck did you even see that? Are you sure they're not there in the first picture, and it was just taken from so high up you can't see it?"

Colby shook his head. "Look, I'll zoom in." He enlarged the view, and the object of his excitement became apparent. There was nothing behind the building in the first picture, and in the second, they could make out scattered small bushes, some of which appeared recessed. The image was grainy, but it was clear there was difference between the two pictures. "When I was in Afghanistan, I was trained to look for stuff like that in aerial photos – areas that may have been camouflaged."

Megan frowned. "But is it camouflage? It doesn't look like the bushes are hiding anything but dirt."

They were silent for a moment. It was true, the pieces of brush were scattered enough it was apparent there was nothing under them but earth. Colby frowned. "No," he admitted, "but it looks like some of them are recessed, and here -," he pointed "here's a shadow that indicates an indentation in the ground. It looks like someone dug a foxhole, and tried to hide it."

"Where is this?" Don asked quietly, his eyes still on the screen. Something about this did not sit right, but he couldn't figure out what it was.

Colby reached for a file. "It's a little construction outfit, right up the road from the checkpoint. One of the troopers checked it out." He pulled a page out of the report. "He said it's an office and a seven-bay garage, which had been evacuated. The owners moved most of the equipment out, according to him, and the place seemed empty and locked up tight."

Megan nodded slowly. "I remember when he came back from that check. He said he didn't see anything unusual."

"Most?" asked David. "It said most of the equipment had been moved out?"

Colby flipped a page over. "Yeah, let's see, he said there was one piece of equipment in the garage yet. Nothing else."

Megan's eyes met Don's. "There's no mention of an SUV, and no sign of one in the pictures. Still, we should probably check it out."

Don nodded. "There may be an explanation why someone would be digging and trimming brush back there, but considering it's in a restricted area, I'd like to know why."

"Okay," said Megan. Her eyes swept the group. "I'm playing it safe; we'll go in with full gear and backup." She turned and David and Don filed out after her, as Colby gathered up the files on the table.

Alan followed Don out into the main office and pulled him aside. "Where are you going?"

"I'm back on the team," he said quietly, meeting his father's eyes. "I can go along, but I can't participate if they find anything. I'll be there though, in case it's something."

Alan stared at him, searching his eyes. "Do you think it is? Something?"

Don looked at him for a minute. No one knew better than him that they were running out of time. "I don't know, Dad," he said finally. "I hope so."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

The team made good time to the checkpoint and were waved through promptly, which was fortuitous, because news media personnel thronged the area. The story had finally broken to the press, who now knew there were two escaped convicts at large and a possible hostage situation. The names of the convicts and the hostage had not been released, and the reporters were hungry for details. When they saw the convoy of vehicles, they started toward them, and it was only with an effort that the troopers held the wave of reporters and cameramen back.

Don stared straight ahead as the vehicle eased through the checkpoint. He had ridden with Megan, silently for the most part. He felt odd, disconnected – it was strange enough to not be calling the shots, and it seemed even more odd to be cast in the role of a mere observer. He was decked out in a bulletproof vest for safety reasons, but if the team took the building, he'd be sitting in Megan's vehicle. All dressed for the dance, but sidelined like a wallflower. He'd made Charlie do that before – sit back out of harm's way when things got unexpectedly tense. He never dreamed he'd be in the same position. It made him feel like a child, with no influence on the situation, and he decided he didn't like it. Not one bit.

He wondered idly if Charlie had felt the same way. It was hard to tell – even though Charlie had toughened up during the four years they'd worked together, his brother still got rattled by violence or its results. Maybe Charlie didn't mind being out of the action, where it was safer. Don's mouth twisted grimly at his last thought. Charlie was anything but safe right now. He'd been out _in_ the action, out in the field, and this was the result.

If somehow things worked out and they got him back safely, Don vowed that this wouldn't happen again. Not on his watch. If Charlie refused to listen to him, well, there was an easy way to fix that. He simply wouldn't be asked to consult. It would make case resolution more difficult, but in the long run, things would be a lot simpler. It was a lot easier to deal with team members, with subordinates, if none of them was your brother. There would never be a question of being in this position again – of being faced with the loss of the most exasperating person Don had ever loved.

It was something he hadn't allowed himself to think about – that they might finally come to the end of this find his brother dead. Don hated being afraid as much as he hated not having control; in fact, the feelings were synonymous as far as he was concerned. If you controlled your life, if you controlled the situation, you had no reason to be afraid - and right now, he had no control, and he was very afraid. Afraid, uncomfortable, and angry. As Megan turned up the gravel drive, he felt the feelings accelerate, along with his heartbeat.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

A cell phone rang in the other room, and Charlie lifted his head from the linoleum, listening, his heartbeat quickening, as Tommy's panicked voice pierced the quiet. "What? Damn it – Jazz – we got a group of cops drivin' up the hill – what?! Feds! Get your gun!"

Tommy staggered in from the doorway, his pistol tucked in his pants, the cell phone to his ear. "Yeah, okay, yeah – we'll try to get out the back, hide in the scrub, and head toward the road. I gotta go." He grabbed the box cutter and knelt, slashing frantically at the twine around Charlie's ankles. "Come on, Eppes, we gotta move."

Jazz loped in through the doorway, his eyes wide. "They've stopped and they're checkin' out the garage. Let's go."

They pulled Charlie to his feet, and the room tilted. His heart was pounding so hard he couldn't breathe, and for a moment everything turned black. Then he realized he was on the floor again, sitting – he'd nearly passed out from the lack of food and water, and they'd let him down so they could adjust their grips. He felt the butt of Tommy's pistol crack him on the shoulder, and the arms were pulling at him again, as Tommy cursed him, and they stumbled for the door.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Megan and the team stopped to look in the garage, which appeared empty except for a single tarp-covered vehicle. Although it was in shadow, the afternoon sun in the windows was enough to illuminate the tarp and the wheels underneath it. "Look at that," Colby exclaimed. "Look at those tires – that's not construction equipment – it's an SUV or a pickup."

Megan shot a sharp glance at the office building. The vehicle could simply be a pickup owned by the construction company. Suddenly though, a premonition possessed her. If it actually was the SUV, if the kidnappers were here, they would have seen them by now – there was no time to waste. They needed to secure the area, and if nothing panned out, they'd come back and examine the vehicle. "Okay, we're going in. I'll take the front entrance with Jackson and Wilson. Colby and David, go around the sides with the rest of the team." She shot a glance behind her, at Don. "Don, you need to stay back."

He nodded reluctantly, and backed toward her vehicle as he watched them run toward the office. He stood there hesitating near the door for a moment, loathe to actually climb in. All thoughts of that were lost, as he watched David peel around the corner of the building, and yell, "We got 'em out back!"

Don's heart did a gyration in his chest, and his legs carried him forward, in spite of himself. He could hear voices yelling, "Drop it! NOW!" and as he came around the corner of the garage he could see into the cleared area at the back of the house. The two convicts and Charlie were backed up to what appeared to be a pit. The dark haired man, who Don knew now was Tommy Moran, had a grip on Charlie's collar with one hand, and a pistol to his head with the other, and the other man was wielding an automatic rifle. Both of them were wearing street clothes; they'd ditched the jumpsuits, but Don recognized them from the warehouse and their mug shots. Charlie was staggering, his hands bound behind him, his feet bare, but he was very much alive. David and Megan were positioned around the back corner of the office building with two of the backup team, all of them with pistols leveled at the men. Don could tell by the looks the convicts were shooting in the other direction that Colby and the rest of the team were positioned at the other corner of the building, out of view from his perspective.

Don observed all of that in the split second it took him to take two strides toward the group, still well back of the team. In the next moment, pandemonium erupted. Charlie, who was weaving badly, suddenly lurched to his knees, and Tommy lost hold of his collar, his grip weakened by his injury. Tommy looked up in panic, then his face blackened, and he fired at Megan and David, trying to back them off for the instant it would take him to haul Charlie to his feet again.

In same moment, with the same thought, Jazz adjusted the rifle and shot. The action had the opposite effect of what they had expected – instead of backing off, the agents on both sides of the house fired, and for a horrible instant, bullets flew back and forth, with Charlie in the middle of the battle, still kneeling, exposed. Don caught his breath and ran forward, heedless of his instructions or of the bullets which zipped past him. Before he could reach them, it was over.

Jazz fell first, toppling sideways, dead before he hit the ground. Tommy recoiled as a shot struck him in the chest. He'd bent down and regained his hold on Charlie's collar, and his grip tightened, viselike, in throes of death. Tommy listed backwards, his eyes glazed, his mouth sagging open, then twisting; he pitched into the gaping hole. As he fell, his nerveless hand relinquished its hold, but not before he'd pulled Charlie with him. Charlie stopped just short of going in, his upper body hanging over the pit, and he watched with horror as Tommy hit the fireman's dirt-covered body beneath him and stopped, laying face up, his dead eyes gazing blankly heavenward.

Charlie was slipping; and an unreasonable fear, driven by his premonitions of being buried in that grave, seized him. He twisted and arched his back with sudden panic, and managed somehow to heave his upper body onto solid ground at the hole's edge. Colby reached him first, and took in Charlie's wide eyes, staring wildly at nothing. He could feel him trembling as he gently pulled him away from the edge of the hole, and propped him into a sitting position. "Hey, Whiz Kid, it's okay," he said softly, as he prepared to cut the twine wrapped around Charlie's wrists. "It's over."

Charlie shuddered, and his eyes refocused. He saw Megan and David running toward them, and other team members, who ran past, intent on the kidnappers. "This one's dead," he heard a man say, and he shot a quick glance over to his left to see the man kneeling over Jazz.

"Got two bodies in the hole," he heard David's voice behind him, and he winced as Colby peeled the twine carefully from his wrists.

Two other men came out the back storeroom door. "Building's secure," one of them said to Megan, and she nodded; then turned to look at Charlie.

She had seen Don run up behind the team as the two men fell, and she'd held him off with a raised hand. He was far too close to the action, but none of the others had seen him yet, they were too busy running toward Charlie and the downed prisoners. If Don stayed where he was for a moment, then came forward, it would appear he'd waited at the vehicle like she'd asked, then arrived after the shots stopped. None of the team would be faced with the prospect of having to report that their SAC hadn't followed her instructions. She looked back at the building to give him a nod, but he'd already started toward them. As he saw her nod, he broke into a trot.

Charlie saw him coming, and suddenly it hit him. He was free, he was okay – his premonition had been wrong, he wasn't going to end up in the grave. The tension began to drop away, and a flood of emotion surged in to replace it, as he realized how close he'd come to death. He suddenly felt the overwhelming need for his brother, for a hug, for reassurance.

Don dropped to his knees in front of him, a ridiculous grin on his face, and put his hands on Charlie's shoulders. "Jesus, Buddy," he breathed.

It was the best he could do at the moment; Colby was still working on peeling strips of twine from Charlie's wrists. Charlie looked up at him through the tangle of curls hanging in his eyes, eyes still filled with the remnants of horror from his ordeal. Don could see a bruise on his face underneath the stubble, and splatters of blood on Charlie's once-white shirt. It was the pitiful look in Charlie's eyes which hit hardest; he looked on the verge of shock, and Don cast about for something to alleviate it, to keep his brother focused. What he said was an inane attempt at a joke, and he blurted it out without thinking.

"Hey, maybe next time you'll listen to me." He delivered it teasingly with a grin, just as Colby finished stripping off the twine, and Charlie, who'd bent forward as he brought his hands around, didn't see the expression that came with the statement.

Charlie's head came up, and he shot a sharp glance at Don, filled with hurt and anger, then he directed his eyes away and pushed at Don's hands, as he struggled to his feet. "You know," he said, his voice husky from dehydration, his voice trembling with emotion, "'I told you so' is the last thing I need to hear right now.'"

Don paused and just stared at the ground for a moment, his smile fading, as Charlie, now upright, staggered forward past him. Had he really just said that? He turned apologetically, rising to his feet. "Charlie…"

Charlie had made it only a painful few steps. One of his feet was bleeding and was leaving dark splotches of blood on the ground. Don and Colby leapt to their feet, but David was closer, and grabbed him as Charlie staggered. "Hey, man, you need to sit down."

Megan had watched the exchange, and stepped forward, tactfully trying to ignore the look of mingled frustration and chagrin on her boss' face. "Charlie, David's right," she said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Sit down. We're going to take you to the hospital, get you checked out."

Charlie's head was swimming. He desperately wanted to be anywhere other than there, but he obeyed them and sank to the ground, and the dizziness cleared almost as soon as he did so. He was still scowling and spoke crossly. "I don't need a hospital," he groused. "I need my shoes, and some water, and a ride home."

Megan smiled and shook her head. "Sorry, you're getting checked out, Charlie. If the medics say it's okay, you can ride with me instead of in the ambulance, but you _are_ going to the hospital."

Don had stepped up behind him, with a scowl of his own, prompted partially by Charlie's stubbornness, and partially by his own ineptness. "It's procedure, Charlie. Don't give her a hard time."

"Oh, yeah, right," Charlie shot over his shoulder, angrily. He was still hurt that instead of hug or a show of affection, after everything he'd been through, all that his brother had been able to generate was an admonition. It was like none of it ever happened, and they'd picked up with their argument where they'd left off. "God forbid I should go against Mr. Procedure."

Don looked heavenward, trying mightily to control his tongue and succeeded, barely. He stumped around the group and headed toward the building, directing his words at Megan. "I'll do a check of the building for the report." He could scarcely keep down the emotions which welled in him – he wanted to shake his brother and hug him at the same time, and he wasn't sure which would win out at the moment. It would be best if he kept his distance until Charlie calmed down. Until _he_ calmed down. The fact was, he was still recovering from the sight of his brother kneeling helplessly in the middle of a gun battle.

He stopped in the storeroom, as he took in Charlie's shoes, sitting on the floor next to cut twine. The mental picture of Charlie bound, lying on the scuffed linoleum floor for nearly three days, made him swallow hard. Dismay and frustration filled him. As unfortunate as his choice of words had been, he was right – he knew it, and so did Charlie. If Charlie had listened to him from the start and gone home, none of this would have happened. Even now, with the truth staring him in the face, Charlie didn't want to admit that he should have obeyed him. It didn't help matters that Charlie had chosen to air the disagreement in front of the team. All of those thoughts solidified the decision in Don's mind – his brother's consulting days were over. His lips tightened with conviction as he made the vow, trying to ignore the odd little feeling of disappointment that came with it.

He stooped and retrieved the shoes and stumped back out. He stood, holding them and watching awkwardly for a moment, as Charlie was checked by a medic, who frowned as he took a blood pressure reading. "Sorry, buddy, you're gonna go for a ride with us. I don't like your readings. You okay sitting up? No, don't get up – we'll bring the gurney to you."

Two other medics were checking the prisoners, and Colby and David were examining the body of the dead firefighter, looking for ID. Charlie sat with slumped shoulders as a gurney was wheeled toward him, refusing to meet Don's eyes. Megan pulled Don aside, and spoke quietly, handing him her keys. "Take my car – you can follow the ambulance. I'll finish up here, and catch a ride with Colby and David." Her eyes fell on Charlie's shoes. "You can bring him his shoes," she suggested.

He knew she'd observed the argument, and was giving him a reason to be with his brother, and an opportunity to patch things up. He nodded and took the keys. "Thanks – thanks for everything – that was a good call back there – you didn't waste any time."

She nodded and smiled. "Thanks. Now go take care of Charlie."

She turned and walked toward Colby and David. The medics had lifted Charlie onto the gurney and had started to wheel it toward the ambulance, lifting it over the rougher spots. Don followed, with a glance down at the shoes in his hands. God knew, he didn't need any more shoes. He'd already put his foot in his mouth, and was still tasting leather.

His heart dropped further as they reached the ambulance. The adrenaline was wearing off, and fatigue and his injuries were apparently getting the better of him – Charlie had turned even paler, and in spite of the blanket covering him, had started to shake.

"Let's get him in, and get another blanket on him," said one medic to the other. "He's looking a little shocky." Don caught one last look at Charlie's face, white, his eyes still dark with images from his ordeal, and ran for Megan's car as the ambulance doors shut.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Sean Moran leaned against the rock, binoculars to his eyes. His hands were shaking so badly when he saw the feds turn up the road that, after he'd called Tommy, he'd knelt next to a boulder and put his elbows on it for support. His heart pounding, he'd watched the scene play out - his brother stumbling from the house with the hostage, the confrontation with the agents, the gun battle. The sound of the shots wafted over the valley, registering seconds after they occurred. With horror and disbelief he'd watched Tommy's body jerk, then topple into the hand-dug grave, and rocking and moaning to himself, he'd prayed his brother would reappear.

He didn't, but still Sean waited with mingled hope and dread, until the black agent jumped into the grave, and stood up shaking his head, placing something small and dark – Tommy's pistol - on the ground next to the pit. The actions of the medics were the final, telltale sign. Methodical and unhurried, the movements lacked the urgency that would be generated by a live victim. As they pulled Tommy out of the pit and laid him on the ground, Sean heard a strange low keening, an animal moan. It went on and on, and it wasn't until many moments later he realized it was coming from himself.

He rose. His face was wet and there was a black mist around the edges of his vision, generated by grief and hatred. He stood for a moment, chest rising and falling, hands clenching and unclenching, then lifted the binoculars from their strap and stared into them again, eyes icy with rage. This time he looked not at Tommy, but at the two men near the pit, the younger man sitting, his brother standing near him. He watched with cold hatred as the younger man was placed into the ambulance and it pulled away, and the older followed in a second vehicle. It was their fault, he raged. The fed had ordered his team to kill Tommy, because Tommy had his brother. He swung the binoculars back to Tommy's prone form, and through the tears, he swore on his brother's body. They would pay, both of them. By God, they would pay.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Don't be too hard on Don - his heart is in the right place, even if he's too much of a tough guy to come up with the right words. As far his decision about Charlie's consulting goes, his worry for Charlie is over-riding his usual common sense. Besides, you know how I love to stir up conflict._

_I need to take this opportunity to explain a change in the way I plan to present this story. I originally intended it as one piece, but it's turning into three separate but related stories, each with a Moran brother as the primary antagonist. I am therefore going to break this into a series. What you are reading now (through Chapter 19) will be renamed as Santa Ana Wind, Part I - Tommy. Part two is already written, for the most part - in the original it would have been Chapters 20-46, but it will become instead the second story in the series, Santa Ana Wind, Part II - Sean. There will be no break in the posting - I will start the first chapter of Part II the day after I post the last chapter of Part I, so it shouldn't interrupt the story flow. Part III - Dillon is still rolling around in my head, but I will start writing it soon. If you think Tommy was bad, wait until you get a load of Sean._

**Chapter 16**

The medics wheeled the gurney into the curtained bay in the ER of the San Bernardino Community Hospital, directed by a harried intern. One of them spoke to her, filling her in on the patient's condition. "Name's Charles Eppes, age 32. Kidnapping victim. Minor injuries, contusions, a laceration to the foot, abrasions on the wrists. The main problem is dehydration – I couldn't get a vein to get an IV started, but we got two bottles of water into him on the way here. You might be able to get one going now. He was kind of shocky when we first put him in the ambulance, but he stopped shaking when we got another blanket on him. I think he's doing a little better with the fluids, but I'd watch him. He said he hasn't eaten anything in about three days."

She nodded, glancing at the chart the man gave her. "Okay, we've got him. I'll start an IV and get a doctor to look at him. Thank you." The medics nodded and headed out of the bay, as she stepped forward to look at the patient. She was greeted with dark eyes, and brows drawn together in a frown.

"I really think this is unnecessary," the young man said. He pushed himself shakily to a sitting position. "There's nothing here that can't be treated at home."

She eyed his foot, taking in the blood seeping through the bandages that the medics had applied. "You probably need some stitches in that foot, and from the medic's exam and the looks of your BP readings, you need some fluids. The doctor will examine you and make that call. First we're going to get you into a gown."

She picked up a clean gown from the cart against the wall and stepped toward him, only to be greeted by his outstretched hand. "I can do it," he said.

She paused for a fraction of a second, taken aback by the oozing abrasions on his wrist, and he grabbed the gown from her. She took in the defiant expression on his face, and nodded. He might have been shocky earlier, but he looked all right now. She had too much to do anyway, and patients who were worse off than this one. The recent fires had stretched the ER to its limits. "Okay," she said. "I'll be right back. Remove your clothes – the gown opens in back."

Charlie sat for a moment and watched her go, the curtain swinging behind her. Truthfully, he was weak and dizzy, and he knew it probably wouldn't have hurt to have some help. He wasn't in the mood for it at the moment. The last thing he needed was to be questioned; he didn't have the strength or the patience for it. He should be relieved; he _was _relieved to be away from his kidnappers, but the aftermath of the terror still clung to him like the smoky scent in his clothes, and as exhausted and shell-shocked as he was, he was having a hard time dealing with it. He wanted home; he wanted his father's arms. It was childish, he knew, and even as he wanted it, he berated himself for being weak. Don's reaction had driven that home – there no room for weakness if you were a man. No hugs, just a quick grab of the shoulders, and a short lecture, and you were expected to be over it. That's what tough FBI agents did. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get on with life.

Scowling, feeling hurt and sorry for himself and hating it at the same time, he leaned back and struggled out of his pants, dropping them on the floor, as Don's words echoed in his head. '_Hey, maybe next time you'll listen to me…,'_ He could still see the teasing grin on his brother's face. The thing was; he could see Don making that same comment to one of his agents – nothing like a little ribbing to defuse a tense situation. If Don had given – oh, Colby for instance - that same good-natured jab, Charlie thought to himself, Colby would have shot one right back, instead of getting angry and defensive. Charlie longed to be accepted by Don as an equal, and Don had just treated him that way – like a man, like one of the team, like a tough agent, and Charlie had ruined it by getting angry.

He sat up and unbuttoned his shirt with stiff and trembling fingers, panting a little with the effort, just a bit taken aback by how weak he felt. He jutted his chin forward with determination. He wasn't about to let anyone know how enervated he felt, how rattled he still was, how much he longed for a hug. Especially not his brother.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don hurried down the ER hallway. He could see the medics who had treated Charlie approaching him, obviously on their way out, and he stopped them as they drew even with him. "Charles Eppes – where did they put him?"

One of the medics recognized him as the agent that had followed them from the scene. "Around the corner – he's in a curtained bay – the second one on the right."

Don nodded, and strode around the corner, his footsteps slowing as he reached the bay. He'd been driven by anxiety – after what had happened, he felt he could barely stand to let Charlie out of his sight, but now that he was there, the memory of the hurt and accusation in his brother's eyes made him pause. He wasn't entirely sure how welcome he'd be. The curtain was open just an inch, and he looked in cautiously.

Charlie had just removed his shirt, and was dropping it on the floor. He sat hunched miserably for a moment, clad only in his boxers, unaware of Don's presence. Don caught his breath at the sight. The shirt had hidden the multiple bruises underneath it; the long sleeves had concealed the ugly oozing abrasions on Charlie's wrists. The blood had seeped through the bandages on his brother's foot, and it was dripping on the floor, each drop splattering a little, soundless under the din of the busy emergency room. Don couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his brother shirtless; Charlie usually dressed in layers. Was he really that thin? He couldn't have lost all of that weight in the last two days – well, almost three days. Granted, his brother was small, but Don could see his ribs protruding, covered in bruises, as Charlie shrugged on the gown, trembling from the effort.

"Aw, Buddy," he whispered to himself. Charlie had been through hell, and when he'd finally been rescued, all Don had managed to come up with was a sermon. Granted, even though he'd really thought it, he'd delivered it as a joke, a way to lessen the residue of horror in his brother's eyes – but the humor didn't mean much when it was obvious that Charlie hadn't taken it that way. He opened his mouth to announce his presence, oblivious to the hurried footsteps approaching, the sound of his name drowned out by the blare of the intercom.

To his surprise, before he could speak he felt a hand squeeze his shoulder as someone pushed past him, and he glanced sideways to see his father, just as Alan exclaimed, "Charlie!" and strode toward the bed.

Don watched as they embraced; he saw the scowl and the hurt expression fade from his brother's face. Charlie's eyes were shut, his face twisted in an effort to hide the emotion that had arisen at the sight of his father, and he clung to him with arms that trembled, just a little. Don swallowed. '_That should have been me – that's what I should have done_,' he thought, as he watched Alan hold his brother tight.

He turned as he heard his name, and saw Amita and Larry hurrying toward him with hope and anxiety on their faces. "He's in here," he said, unnecessarily, and they hurried in, laughing with relief, hugging Charlie, who slowly relinquished his hold on Alan. His eyes finally caught Don's, just for a moment. Charlie jerked them away as soon as he saw him, but not before Don caught the hurt expression, the flash of anger. He stood there at the curtain as the rest of them clustered around his brother, feeling like an outsider.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Much to Charlie's dismay, the doctor, after hearing what had happened and viewing Charlie's blood work, insisted that he be admitted overnight. He was badly dehydrated; his blood work showed the effects of going three days with only the candy bar he'd bought at the gas station for sustenance, and the doctor insisted that he needed an antibiotic for the cut in his foot and the abrasions on his wrists, which showed signs of infection. In a remarkably short time, considering the business of the ER, Charlie found himself in a room, private, thanks to Alan's intervention.

The floor he was on was relatively quiet compared to the ER, and in spite of himself, he finally began to relax. The doctor had ordered something to help with the residual anxiety he was feeling, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to rest, to finally let go. Amita and Larry, noticing his drooping eyelids, had departed, and Alan had gone to collect Charlie's clothes from the ER locker. The room was empty, and as quiet descended and the medication began to kick in, Charlie took a deep breath, and felt some of the tension recede.

His eyes had drifted shut, but a sound by his bedside made them fly open, warily. He blinked, trying to focus, as he saw his brother.

Don felt a pang as he watched panic flit over Charlie's face; even the sedative couldn't completely erase the effects of his brother's ordeal. They regarded each other in silence for a moment; then Charlie spoke. "Did you come to lecture me again?"

His brother's words were slurred a little, and he tried his best to look angry, but Don could see that the scowl that had dominated Charlie's face earlier had faded. He wasn't sure if it was because of the sedative, or if Charlie really was beginning to show signs of forgiveness, but he decided he'd take advantage of it, whichever it was. "No," he said quietly. He almost said, "I was kidding," but he stopped himself. He hadn't been kidding, not really – he'd just picked a lousy time to say it. Instead, he said, "How are you doing?"

Charlie lifted a shoulder in a feeble shrug, and looked away. "Okay. Tired." He frowned a moment as if in concentration, then looked back at Don. "I suppose you need to ask me some questions." He sounded stiff, a little formal.

"We can go over most of it later," Don said, nonplussed by his brother's reserved demeanor. He paused, and he looked so miserable that Charlie felt some of the resentment melt away.

"Look, Charlie, about that comment – I'm sorry." Don paused again, desperately fishing for words. "It's just that – you had this look in your eyes – and I, well, I wanted to take your mind off what had just happened. I didn't do a good job of picking the words."

Charlie looked back at him, and suddenly, unexpectedly, his mouth twisted in a rueful grin. "Actually, you did – it sure took my mind off it." The expression faded and he looked down at his hands. "I know you were teasing – I get it – it's just the kind of thing I could picture you saying to one of your team."

Don's face softened; and he moved forward and sat next to Charlie, laying a hand on his arm, just above the bandages on his wrist. "Yeah, well, you aren't just one of the team."

Charlie felt his eyes start to sting, and he looked away to hide his expression. '_Come on, be tough_,' he told himself. '_Don't get all emotional again – now's your chance to show him you can handle it.' _He cleared his throat. "So, I imagine you have a few questions, right?"

Don hesitated, trying to read Charlie's expression. Was he up for this? He looked collected enough – far more than Don would have thought. He said, "There are just a few things that we need to clear up right away, if we can. We had information that there were only three escapees. Is that right?"

Charlie nodded wearily. "Yes. I just got their first names. Tommy, Jake, and a guy they called Jazz. Jake was the one who got shot at the packaging place."

"They shot two men – can you tell me which of them did it?"

Charlie stared at the sheet covering his legs. "Jazz shot the trooper on the highway. At least it looked like he did it." He looked up at Don, concern in his face. "The trooper went down, but I wasn't sure how badly he was hurt. Did he make it?"

Don shook his head. "No. He was dead when the medics got there – they think it was pretty much immediate. Shot through the heart."

Charlie looked back at his knees, his eyes haunted. "That's two, then." He was silent for a moment. "Tommy shot the firefighter. We came up on him in the smoke plume, and stopped the car. The man told us to follow him out, and when he turned for his SUV, Tommy shot him in the back. They put him in the back of his SUV, and Tommy and I laid in back with him with a tarp over us. Jazz put on the firefighter's gear, and drove the SUV out, right past the troopers."

He fell silent again, and Don tried to push aside the mental picture that Charlie's story had generated. "Okay, Buddy," he said softly, "just one more for now, and we'll get the rest later. Do you know if they had outside help for the escape?"

Charlie met his eyes again, and nodded with conviction. His words were slurring a little from the sedative, but there was no mistaking the certainty in his eyes. "Definitely. Tommy was talking on a cell phone with someone who was ahead of us on the road. Originally, it sounded like that person was going to pick Tommy up, but they hadn't planned on the shooting and all of the cars there to witness it. I think that's why they needed my car – the prisoners were trying to get away, just far enough up the road to meet up with whoever was helping them. Whoever it was told them about the roadblock, and that's why they pulled over into the packaging warehouse. They called again when we were in the firefighter's SUV and warned us about the second roadblock, and that's when they hid out at the construction company." He paused for breath.

Don nodded, as comprehension dawned in his eyes. "They always seemed to be a step ahead of us. No wonder. Did Tommy use a name when he spoke on the cell phone?"

Charlie shook his head. "I tried to listen for that, but he was pretty careful. Toward the end, he got a little more careless – he started talking to Jazz about a family business – a string of meth labs, and offered Jazz a job, but I never heard him use the name of his contact."

Don's gaze sharpened. "Are you sure it was meth labs?"

Charlie nodded. His head was getting too heavy for his neck, and he leaned back against the pillow. "Positive. He described how it was set up – several small operations in middle class neighborhoods."

Don frowned. "Why would he be so careful with the name of his contact, and then discuss that in front of you?"

Charlie looked at him sideways, and then looked away. Describing what had happened was more disturbing than he expected, but he was determined to seem tough, emotionless. One of the guys. He forced his feelings to the back of his mind, and when he spoke, he directed it at the opposite wall. "At first they weren't sure what they were going to do with me. I think they were careful because they had thoughts that they might need to let me go in exchange for their freedom."

He glanced back at Don, and then down at his knees. He spoke again, quietly, almost tonelessly. "At the end, they'd already decided to kill me. If the roadblock didn't come down, they'd use me as a hostage to get through, first, then get rid of me. If the roadblock came down, they were going to do it right there, and bury me with the firefighter. At that point, it didn't really matter what they said in front of me."

Don felt his heart lurch, and his throat constricted. They had been only a few hours from shutting down the roadblock. If Colby hadn't spotted that innocuous clump of brush…

Silence descended in the room, and Don realized that Charlie had stopped speaking and had shut his eyes. He stared for a moment, not knowing what to say, and the silence stretched until Charlie's head drooped sideways, and the only sound in the room was his soft, regular breathing.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don walked wearily into the bullpen the next day. Charlie had been discharged in the morning, and Don had offered to help Alan get him home, but his brother had declined. A night's rest and some soft food had apparently done nothing for Charlie's outlook; he was in a foul mood because he'd learned he had to account for his paperwork infraction. God knew, Charlie was entitled to a little crankiness after what he'd been through, but Don was getting a bit impatient himself. Charlie had to know he'd been somewhat wrong to begin with. His irritation should have been directed at least partially at himself, but far from exhibiting humility, Charlie seemed bent on dragging out the argument over the paperwork that had started close to a week ago. It was starting to piss Don off, just a little.

He plopped sourly into his chair, and Megan approached almost immediately. "We did some checking on Charlie's story. The cell phones Tommy Moran were using were prepaid, no way to trace them. There were two of them – it looked like he'd used one phone up until the night before we found them, and then switched to the other one. Both of them had calls to the same number, another prepaid cell phone, again untraceable as to point of purchase. In fact, it's no longer transmitting a GPS location. Whoever was using it apparently destroyed it."

Don grunted. "Did anyone talk to the Morans?"

"I'd sent a man over to talk to them two days ago, and Dillon and Sean both had alibis for the escape. I think we ought to pay them another visit, though, ourselves. In fact, I figured if you and I went now, we'd probably catch them. Tommy Moran's funeral is this afternoon."

Don nodded, and his eyes drifted toward his desktop, clouded with some emotion Megan couldn't place. She brought the next topic up with hesitation. "I need to go over to Charlie's house this afternoon. I need to set up a phone conference with Wright and the director. They want Charlie's version of the story so they can close out the paperwork infraction."

She couldn't help but notice the hint of frustration in Don's shrug.

"I heard," he said brusquely. "Go ahead. The sooner that's over with, the better."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

A half hour later, they were driving up the sloping manicured drive that led to Dillon Moran's residence in Newport Beach. Megan briefed him on the Moran family.

"The family moved here from Philadelphia six years ago. Three brothers, Dillon, the oldest, Sean, and Tommy, the youngest. Dillon is a respected businessman, owns several car dealerships and area restaurants. We've just started digging into Charlie's allegations that the family runs a meth network – nothing so far, but if there is a connection, I'd bet on Sean. Both he and Tommy have had run-ins with the law. Sean got off on a meth possession count a few years back, Tommy wasn't so lucky, just a month later, he got picked up for meth and cocaine – possession and dealing, and was found guilty. When he escaped, he had eight years to serve on a ten-year sentence, probably would have been out in three more years. Sean couldn't be reached at his address; I'm guessing he's here today."

Don inclined his head toward her. "Does Dillon Moran know we're coming?"

"No."

He smiled grimly, as he pulled the car into a parking area off the drive. "Good."

They stepped out, and Don took in the building in front of them as they approached. Easily five million dollars, it was a tasteful sprawling two-story in white stone, with Grecian lines and pillars, flanked by immaculate landscaping. Added wings were tucked back to either side, and they stepped up carved flagstone steps to the ornate front door. As they stood waiting after ringing the bell, Don couldn't help but feel a cold anger simmering inside. He had the conviction that these men had orchestrated the escape of their brother, and had nearly gotten Charlie killed in the process. A maid answered; they produced their badges, and she stepped away; then a moment later she reappeared and ushered them inside.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 16


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Don and Megan were shown into a spacious study off the foyer, and instructed to wait. It was an expensively appointed room, with a boldly crafted mahogany desk and chairs upholstered with Spanish leather. Bookcases lined one wall and were filled with expensive tomes, which appeared to be mostly for show; very few bindings were cracked. Certificates of appreciation from local charities were scattered on the walls, along with photos of Moran shaking hands with minor dignitaries. Dillon Moran seemed intent on appearing above his humble roots. The whole set-up smacked of duplicity, Don thought, and his mistrust of the man grew.

He heard footsteps at the door, and he turned to lock eyes with the man himself. Dark eyes met icy blue ones in a look of mutual distrust, and Don flipped open his badge. "Agents Eppes and Reeves," he said in a businesslike tone. "We have a few questions for you, Mr. Moran." He didn't extend a hand, and if Moran noticed, he ignored the slight, and strode past them for his desk.

He turned to face them, his expression cold. His voice was clipped, with just a trace of the once-heavy Philadelphia accent. "You've picked a bad day for this, Agent. We are preparing for my brother's funeral."

They exchanged a glare, and Megan, noticing it, stepped in with an attempt at conciliation. "This will only take a few moments."

Moran's gaze flickered toward her briefly and he nodded; then returned his gaze to Don, who spoke without preamble. "We have information that your brother Tommy was aided in his escape attempt. We'd like to know if you have any idea who might have set it up, who his contacts may have been."

Moran's voice was cool, and slightly impatient. "There were two other prisoners involved. How do you know it wasn't one of them who set it up?"

Don's eyes narrowed. "We have testimony from the hostage – he witnessed your brother on the phone during the escape attempt several times, speaking to an accomplice."

Moran's eyes flickered; then he recovered and smiled thinly. "The hostage – your brother, the hostage. Very convenient, I'd say."

Don scowled. "And what would you say is convenient?"

"The fact that all of the prisoners involved are dead; and there is no one to corroborate his story. I'm sure it dovetails nicely with your account of the murder of my brother, but I can guarantee you I'm having this affair looked into. It was your team; I hold you personally responsible."

"Your brother fired on a group of FBI agents without warning, and was threatening a hostage's life," snapped Don. "He'd already murdered an innocent firefighter. They were certainly justified to act." He could feel rage rising as the scene flashed in his memory, and he clenched his jaw in an attempt to maintain control.

Moran grunted. "The question is; were they predisposed to kill him? It was your team, your brother was involved – I'm sure they're very loyal to you. I imagine they would follow any order you might give them."

Megan spoke up sharply. "He wasn't giving the orders. I was in command."

"Were you now, my dear?" Moran smiled and spoke indulgently, as if to a child. "As I said before, how convenient." His eyes hardened as he looked at Don. "I'll have you know, Jason Walsh, FBI Director of Internal Affairs, is a personal friend of mine. As I mentioned, I'm having this affair looked into. For the record, you've already had agents out to interview me and my brother Sean, and we both produced alibis for the time period in question. I suggest you desist, unless you want me to add harassment to my list of complaints. Now if you don't mind, I need to attend to funeral arrangements."

He swept past them, making for the door, and Don let him get within a foot of it before he spoke. "I'd like to speak to your brother Sean."

Dillon paused, and turned. "Sean is indisposed at the moment. His brother's death has hit him very hard. In any event, he's already provided an alibi."

Don spoke smoothly, belying the impatience roiling inside him. "You misunderstand us. We know you have alibis; we'd like to know if Sean has any information concerning outside contacts Tommy might have had. Your brothers appeared to have similar interests, maybe they had similar contacts."

He had purposely thrown Moran a way to cast doubt on someone other than himself or Sean, and he saw the man hesitate, considering. Dillon seemed to relax a bit; then heaved a sigh. "I have to admit, my brothers have made some bad decisions in their lives. Sean, though, has tried to turn himself around. I doubt that Tommy was the prisoner who was working with an accomplice, and even if he was, I doubt even more that Sean would have any idea of whom that might be. In the spirit of cooperation, however, I will have him compile a list for you." His tone turned harsh once more. "That does not mean I intend to drop my investigation of the shooting. Good day, Agent." He turned on his heel and strode through the doorway.

Neither Don nor Megan spoke until they were outside. "Interesting," she murmured, as they shut the doors of the SUV. "He was highly defensive until you insinuated we thought someone else may have helped Tommy. Then he changed his tune."

Don nodded; his expression calculating. "He did back down, didn't he? As long as the investigation isn't heading his direction, he's willing to help. When it is, he'll do anything to take the heat off."

Megan glanced at him. "Including starting an investigation of his own. Do you really think he knows Jason Walsh?"

Don shrugged, just a bit uncomfortably, as he swung the SUV around toward the driveway. "Who knows? Walsh came from somewhere out East; it could have been Philly."

Megan's tone turned reassuring. "I wouldn't worry about it. We'll wrap the loose ends up this afternoon when I get Charlie on the conference call with Walsh and Maxwell. Charlie will give them his story, and we'll put all of that to bed."

"Right," Don murmured, as he guided the vehicle down the long winding drive. Her comment reminded him of the fact that his brother shortly was scheduled for a phone interview with Walsh, the man in charge of FBI Internal Affairs, and FBI Director Dave Maxwell. He shifted a bit uncomfortably in his seat, hoping Charlie would be cooperative, in his current state of mind.

Megan looked reflective for a moment. "You know, Dillon Moran could be telling the truth, as far as he knows it. It could be Sean is involved in the meth labs and the escape plan without Dillon's knowledge. Or it is even possible Tommy used the term "family" as a designation for another group, a gang of some type, and neither Dillon nor Sean is involved. We have to consider the possibility we could be looking for someone else entirely."

"It is possible," conceded Don, reluctantly. He'd taken an instant dislike to Dillon Moran, but he knew he had to stay objective. That was just a trifle difficult, when you envisioned the person you were questioning as the architect of an escape plan which had almost gotten your little brother killed. "Whoever it is, this is the first break we've had on the meth case since we started. We've been spinning our wheels on that and getting nowhere. We have to follow this up."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Sean Moran watched from the bedroom window, glassy eyes filled with hate, as the two agents got into the SUV. The door opened, and he glanced back to see Dillon, then turned away to the window again, partly to watch the object of his hatred, and partly to hide his face from Dillon. He was high again; he'd been hitting the meth hard since watching Tommy die. It was the only way he could cope. If coping was what you called this misery. "I'm gonna kill that sonofabitch," he rasped.

Rage overtook him, and he turned to face Dillon, shaking, his face contorted. "I'm gonna kill him. He told his team to kill Tommy, to shoot him like a dog. I'm gonna take him out. His little brother too. Piss on 'em."

Dillon eyed him coldly, with just a hint of distaste. "You need to lay off the stuff, Sean. You have to go out in public this afternoon. Don't disgrace your brother's memory by showing up stoned. The last thing you need to do is confront either of the Eppes. You need to lay low, to look like a good citizen for a while. If you don't, they'll come down on you, on me, on everything we've built. Do you think Tommy would want that?"

Sean's face twitched, and he raised a shaking hand to rumple his limp, bedraggled hair. The angry expression faded just a bit, and was replaced by distress. "I know; I just can't help it. Every time I think of Tommy, fallin' in that hole…" His face crumpled, and he tried to hide it in his shaking hand.

Dillon moved smoothly to his side, and put a comforting arm around him. "I know; it's not right, but there are other ways to handle these things, Sean. I know some people who could make life tough for both of them, especially the agent. And it keeps us in the clear, makes us look legal."

He looked down at the shaking, sniveling man, and hardly recognized him as his brother. Sean was going off the deep end; he'd been pounding the meth, nearly out of his mind on the stuff. If he didn't get himself together, he was going to pull them all under. He needed something to latch onto, even if it was a lie. "You know, I'm grooming you to take over," Dillon said, in a conspiratorial murmur, his accent deepening, reminiscent of their East coast roots. "Especially now that Tommy's gone, I need you for the future. You know I don't like that dago Lenny runnin' what's ours. I need you, Sean. You're my right hand man now; I need you to step up."

He watched with satisfaction as Sean ran a sleeve across his runny nose, and straightened, looking him in the eye with pathetic earnestness. "You know I'm your man, Dillon. I'll do whatever you say. We're brothers, we got to stick together."

"Damn right," said Dillon softly, as he hugged Sean against him. "We brothers got to stick together. Now go get yourself cleaned up." He watched, his eyes narrowed, as Sean nodded obligingly, and shoulders hunched, left the room with an unsteady gait. He could still control Sean, but there were times lately when the drugs made his brother completely unpredictable. The ill-fated escape plan had been a case in point. He needed to get Sean into rehab for his own good – before he screwed up something that couldn't be fixed, before he pulled down what Dillon had spent a lifetime building.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don pushed the front door open and stepped into the living room, Megan behind him. He caught Alan's eye and nodded but didn't speak; there appeared to be a phone conference already in progress. Charlie was sprawled on the sofa, sitting with his bandaged foot up, and Alan sat in an armchair beside him, both of them turned toward the phone on the coffee table, which had been set on speaker. The voice of Charlie's publisher, Ruby, floated out of the receiver.

"_I understand that you've been through a terrible time, but we really need to reschedule this book signing as soon as possible. You said you're back at school on Wednesday? When do you think you'd be available?_"

Charlie and Alan were both scowling at the receiver, and at the publisher's words, Don joined them. His brother had just been through a horrendous experience, and a damn book-signing couldn't wait? On top of that, Charlie was going back to school on Wednesday? "What in the hell is this?" he growled softly, and Alan raised a hand and hit the mute button.

"We told Charlie's publisher that he was in an accident," he said, mistaking the reason for Don's anger. "We knew all of the details weren't released to the press yet."

Charlie sighed with exasperation. "The last thing I need right now is a book signing," he muttered.

"You don't need to be back at school on Wednesday, either," Alan retorted. Don got the impression he was witnessing an argument which had begun earlier. Charlie rolled his eyes, and Alan jabbed at the mute button with his finger, turning it off. "I would suggest you wait until Charlie's injuries have healed," he said to the phone, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "His wrists are bandaged. You could imagine the rumors that bandaged wrists might generate."

"_Oh, Lord!_" exclaimed Ruby, sounding horrified, as Charlie glared at Alan. "_No, we wouldn't want that! Look, you just get some rest – I'll put them off somehow. You call me when you think you'll be able to do this, and get healed up now, okay?_"

"Right, okay," said Charlie resignedly, and the phone clicked as Ruby disconnected. He scowled at Alan. "That was not exactly the best picture to create."

"It worked, didn't it?" Alan shot back, as he rose and turned toward the kitchen.

Megan stepped forward. "How are you doing, Charlie?" she asked.

Charlie shot her a glance, pointedly ignoring Don. "I'd be doing a lot better without these phone conferences," he said dourly. "Aren't we blowing a piece of paperwork out of proportion, just a bit?"

Don spoke up, irritably. Charlie's sour mood was starting to wear on him, and his brother certainly didn't need to take it out on Megan. "If you hadn't been out in the field without that piece of paperwork, you wouldn't have to do this. Just play along, for once."

"I've been playing along for four years, and this hasn't been an issue before," retorted Charlie, finally looking at Don, angrily.

"That's because I've been filling the papers out for you, and making sure you sign them," retorted Don. '_Something other contractors manage to do on their own,' _he felt like adding, but he bit his tongue. As prickly as Charlie was being, Don still didn't have the heart to upbraid him after what he'd just been through. He looked at Megan, his jaw set. "I've got some other things to do, and I don't believe I was invited to this. I'll let you and Charlie handle it." She nodded and he turned and headed out the door without another word, shutting it just a bit more firmly than he needed to.

Charlie watched him go, his face still angry, but his shoulders slumped a little, and Megan sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Charlie watched Don shut the door behind him, puzzlement seeping into the scowl on his face, as Don's last words echoed in his head. "He wasn't invited to this meeting? I thought he set it up."

Megan shook her head as she walked over to the armchair Alan had vacated. "No, Charlie. He's the one being investigated. They got his report and have verified his story with the people they could reach – the fire marshals you worked with, and George Thornton, the arson expert. You were the only one they haven't talked to yet."

Charlie stared at her. "_Don's_ being investigated?" His voice turned angry. "That's ridiculous. I'm the one who didn't fill out paperwork."

Megan had to stifle a smile at how quickly Charlie had turned the argument around. She sat and shook her head, her expression sobering. "No. Charlie, he's in charge. They hold him responsible, including for any mistakes his people might make. The fact that you were recovered relatively unharmed will help – hopefully the discipline he'll face will be slight."

"Discipline?" asked Charlie, concern in his eyes.

Megan nodded soberly. "He could have lost his job over this, Charlie, if you'd been hurt badly." His eyes trailed away, his face stunned as the realization of that sank in, and she pulled out her cell phone, punching in numbers. "It's time to dial in. Wright will be on the line, along with the director, Dave Maxwell, and our head of internal affairs, Jason Walsh. Hopefully, after hearing what you have to say, they'll close this out with a just a slap on the hand."

The connection was made, and an automated female voice came on the line. "The leader of the meeting has not yet arrived," it said, and a clip of soft music began to play.

Megan hit mute. "You have to realize, Charlie, internal affairs will look at this more closely because you are brothers. Most large private companies have conflict of interest guidelines for their employees, and the government has even more stringent rules." She broke off as Wright's voice came on the line, and she jabbed at the mute button.

"_Reeves? Charlie?_"

"Yes, we're here," she responded.

"_Good, let's begin. I have Dave Maxwell and Jason Walsh on the line. Charlie, we apologize for having to put you through this during your recovery, but we need to put this issue to rest_."

"It's not a problem," said Charlie. His voice was even, but Megan saw a bit of defiance in his eyes.

"_We have just a few questions. I understand this began on Friday. Can you tell us what your involvement was in the fire investigations?_"

"I was returning from a conference in San Francisco. I had been listening to the news reports on the way down, and it occurred to me maybe I could help out the people fighting the fire with some models that could calculate projected fire paths by using variable wind shear and direction inputs. I was sitting in the traffic outside Santa Clarita, and decided to try to contact the fire marshal there."

"_Good_," said Wright. "_So you proceeded to do that_."

"Yes."

"_This was of your own accord; you were not operating under directions from the FBI_?"

"Correct."

"_Charlie, this is Jason Walsh."_ The man's accent was decidedly East Coast, and reminded Charlie a little uncomfortably of Tommy's. "_May I ask how you gained access to the Santa Clarita command center?_"

Charlie hesitated, and his eyes flickered toward Megan. "I, uh, showed my FBI ID."

"_Even though it wasn't an FBI matter_." Walsh's voice sounded disapproving. "_You are aware, in most cases that would constitute a misuse of the badge_."

Dave Maxwell spoke before Charlie could answer. "_I think we've established that use of a badge is valid in the case of public emergencies, Jason, and the fire certainly would qualify._"

"_I'm okay with that_," Walsh responded testily, "_as long as Dr. Eppes understands he can't go flashing his badge every time he wants to gain access to something. It is for FBI use only_."

Charlie felt a surge of temper; it was obvious they'd already discussed this, but Walsh had asked him about it anyway to put him on the spot. His eyes flared dangerously and Megan held her breath, but he responded civilly, albeit through tight lips. "I understand that."

"_Good." _Maxwell's voice was not unkind. "_Charlie, we'll be frank with you, the biggest problem we have with this is the appearance this might have generated, if we were asked to disclose it publicly. You used your badge to gain access to a site, and then consulted with our arson expert at another site."_

"He stopped me to ask a question, off the record." Charlie spoke through clenched teeth.

Walsh's voice was impatient. "_We understand. We also understand that your subsequent kidnapping was circumstantial and had nothing to do with why you were out on site. However, if you'd been killed, we would have been forced into a disclosure, quite possibly public, because of your actions. We would be remiss if we did not investigate this, report it, and issue some kind of disciplinary action against the agent in charge of the office. Considering your testimony here, it will be light, merely a letter in his file_ –"

"Why _his_ file?" snapped Charlie. "Why not mine? He had nothing to do with it. In fact he spoke to me after I left Santa Clarita, and told me to go home." Megan was shaking her head warningly, and Charlie shrugged at her angrily.

"_And why didn't you?"_ asked Walsh. _"Do you make a habit of disregarding your SAC's orders?" _

Charlie realized his mistake. He took a deep breath, and tried to keep his voice level. "Gentlemen, I consult for many others, on a regular basis. When it is not for FBI purposes, I don't see a need to clear it with Don. I had already committed to meeting with the fire marshal at Lake Arrowhead before Don spoke to me - that's why I didn't go home. All of this is clearly my decision, on my head. If you have to issue discipline, put the letter in my file."

Maxwell spoke, sounding reluctant. "_Charlie, you're aware this could affect your security clearances with other agencies_."

"If it does, then so be it," said Charlie. "It's the appropriate thing to do in this case."

"_I must admit, I have to agree_," said Maxwell. "_Jason, how about you? Will this satisfy your procedures?" _Charlie couldn't be sure, but it sounded like Maxwell spoke the last word with just a hint of sarcasm.

Walsh sounded disgruntled, but he acquiesced, reluctantly._ "Yes. I'll draw up the letter."_

Wright spoke again, sounding relieved. "_Good. Then we can consider this matter closed?_"

"_Yes," _said Walsh.

"_All right then, thank you, Agent Reeves, Dr. Eppes." _

Wright signed off, and Megan looked at Charlie appraisingly. "That was good thing you did. I'm sure Don will appreciate it." Based on Charlie's earlier angry reaction to his brother, she expected a grudging reply, so she wasn't prepared for his soft, dejected tone.

"I hope so," he said quietly, his shoulders slumping a little. "I never thought trying to help out would cause this much trouble."

Megan smiled sympathetically. "Generally, it wouldn't have, Charlie. The kidnapping kind of blew things out of proportion; put more attention on the paperwork issue. It's not like it was something you could help. If you'd come along a few minutes earlier or later, or had not been the lead car in the line, you probably wouldn't have been involved at all. It was completely random."

Charlie smiled back, and his eyes took on a teasing glint. "You've been around Larry enough to know that nothing in the universe is completely random. Hasn't he lectured you on Chaos Theory?"

She laughed, tilting her head. "Oh yes, he has. Theoretically, I agree with him. As an agent, though, for all practical purposes, in reality events can be random – more random than I care for." She paused, smiling at him, and her gaze turned sympathetic. "You've had a lot to deal with in the past few weeks. How are you handling it?"

Charlie sighed and looked down, and then back up at her. "Actually, I was wondering what Colby was doing – if he had any free time."

Megan's eyebrows rose. "Colby?"

Charlie flushed and looked away. "He, uh, talked to me after the attack during the Parks case, had me talk things out. It helped, a lot."

'_Colby, huh_,' thought Megan. '_Who would have thought it?_' She smiled warmly. "I'm sure he'd be glad to find time. I'll let him know you want to talk."

Charlie smiled back. "Tell him I could use another parking lot discussion."

She nodded, her smile laced with concern as she watched him shift a little on the sofa, his shoulders drooping. He looked pale and tired. "I was supposed to get the rest of your statement as it pertains to the kidnapping. You gave Don the main points yesterday; I need any details you can remember." She paused. "If it's too much right now, I can send Colby over to get it later – you can take a break, get some rest."

Charlie nodded gratefully, with a hint of embarrassment. He hated to look weak, but in truth, he was exhausted. "That actually sounds good, if it's not too much trouble."

Rehashing the events of the past few days was really the last thing he wanted, but he had to get it over with sometime. Maybe his recollection would help them solve the meth case, maybe even take down the people behind the kidnapping.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Against his better judgment, Don decided to show up at the funeral of Tommy Moran. He knew it would probably take longer than Megan and Charlie's phone conference, so he called David and arranged for him to pick Megan up at Charlie's, and drove out to the service. The funeral mass had already begun by the time he got to the church, and he snuck in the back and slunk into a pew along the side, grateful for the darkness inside.

His eyes were glued to the Moran brothers during the service. Dillon sat quietly in the first pew, dry-eyed, occasionally putting an arm around his brother. Don hadn't met Sean yet, but the resemblance to Tommy was clear, and his position in the pew next to Dillon told Don who he was, even if there had been no resemblance. Sean was a mess, teary-eyed and shaky, and when the funeral was over Don stepped to the side behind a group of mourners and got a closer look as the Moran brothers walked past. Sean was exhibiting clear signs of withdrawal – from meth, Don presumed. He was shaky, twitching, and kept repeating odd hand movements, pinching his arm, touching his hair. His nose and eyes were running, and at one point he bared his teeth in a grimace of grief, and Don caught a glimpse of the gaps and diseased gums prevalent among heavy meth users. Dillon had said Sean was turning his life around – if this was improvement, Sean still had a long way to go.

Don decided to forgo the cemetery – he'd be easier to spot there - and drove back north to the office. Charlie occupied his thoughts – the fact that his normally easy-going brother was so obviously angry with him disturbed Don more than he cared to admit. He regretted his own irritation as soon as he stepped outside Charlie's house earlier; his little brother had been through a lot, and if he was dealing with it by being combative, Don could hardly blame him. Anger was the way he dealt with a lot of things, himself. He was getting tired of their argument; however, and maybe just a little guilty over how condescending he'd been, so he resolved to head over to Charlie's in the evening, and try to smooth things over. Charlie needed support right now, no matter how ornery he was.

He felt the guilt deepen when he got to the office and got Megan's report. He walked into the bullpen to find her already there.

"Hey," she said with a smile. "They closed the paperwork issue. I just spoke with Wright. You're back in charge of the prison escape case, now that Charlie's no longer involved. Wright told you to call him when you get a chance." She'd risen as she spoke, and had moved to his side.

He glanced around them and spoke quietly to her. "What did they end up doing for disciplinary action?"

She looked at him, then down at her shoes. "Walsh is writing a letter."

He stared at her, a bit puzzled by her evasive behavior. Megan normally was extremely direct. "So, a letter's not so bad. They can add it to my other two. It could have been a lot worse."

She looked around to be sure no one could overhear, and then looked at him. "It didn't go in your file. They put it in Charlie's."

She put up a hand as an angry expression sprang to his face, and spoke before he could. "It was Charlie's idea. He said he was responsible – that they should put it in his file. I really don't think they cared where it went – they just had to show due diligence in dealing with the issue."

Don scowled. "Still - they should have thought it out. That could affect Charlie's other security clearances."

She nodded. "I know, and Maxwell warned Charlie of that. I think Charlie was pretty upset that they were going to discipline you. He wasn't about to let that happen, and he didn't seem too concerned over his security clearances. He told me after the conference he doubted it would be an issue. He was sure if anyone needed him badly enough, a letter wasn't going to stop them."

Don's face relaxed a bit; and his expression turned wry. "Well, he's got a point there. There aren't too many people who can do what he does."

Megan smiled, and her tone brightened. "So it came out pretty well. Colby got the rest of his statement – I compiled a report – it's on your desk." Again the elusive expression passed over her face, and it made Don wonder what was in that report. Just how bad had it been?

"We get anywhere on the meth investigation?" he asked, raising his voice a little and looking at David and Colby.

Colby looked up and shook his head. "Nada. We're still digging, and we've got the tax guys going through their records, but the Moran brothers' finances all look legit. We can't see any suspicious sources of money, either going in or coming out."

Don pursed his lips reflectively and sighed. "I stopped by the funeral. I didn't talk to Sean, but I got a good look at him. He's a mess, a real doper. I guess I'd have a hard time seeing him as the mastermind of a big complex of meth labs."

"So maybe Tommy wasn't referring to his real family," said Megan slowly.

Don sighed and sat at his desk. "It's starting to look that way," he said heavily, and picked up Charlie's statement.

Megan paused for a moment on the way back to her desk. "You probably ought to suggest that Charlie talk to someone – get some therapy," she murmured. "I know it helped me."

She walked away, and Don sat, staring at the report for moment, and then opened it and began to read. As he read Charlie's account of the kidnapping, his heart contracted, and his conviction born the other day was confirmed. As far as this office was concerned, his brother's consulting days were over.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: I want to thank you all for the reviews. This is the last chapter in this part of the series. Look for Part II tomorrow - it begins where this story leaves off. _

**Chapter 19**

Charlie thrashed wildly, and jerked awake with a start. He'd been dreaming about the pit – he'd been sliding face-forward into it with Tommy's dead eyes staring up at him, and when he woke, he found himself nearly slipping off the sofa. He jerked himself back on the cushions, and lay there panting and sweating for a moment. Last night in the hospital, recurring dreams had featured the hole, most of the time with him in it, lying bound and helpless, as shovels of soft dirt landed on top of him. He'd awakened gasping for air, kicking off the covers in a panic more than once; thinking the yielding surface of the mattress underneath him was the dead firefighter's body.

He sat up and drew a shaky hand across his damp brow, gently lowering his injured foot to the floor, trying to orient himself. He could hear his father clanking pots in the kitchen, and the smell of food – real food, made his stomach gyrate and growl. It must be near dinnertime – he'd slept for a while, then. He heard the front door open and he turned his head, just as Don stepped quietly inside and shut it.

Don regarded him in silence for a moment. After reading Megan's report, he felt even guiltier about his own irascible behavior. The facts describing Charlie's experience were delivered in concise, emotionless prose, just as in any report, and somehow it seemed to make it worse. Charlie wasn't just any other victim, and he'd faced hours, days of pain, wondering if he would live or die. As Don looked at him now, thin, lines of pain still in his face, a surge of regret and protectiveness ran through him, and he moved forward. "Hey, Buddy," he said, and without waiting for an invitation, stepped over and plopped beside him on the sofa, putting an arm around him. He gave him a gentle squeeze, and looked into Charlie's face. "Are you okay?"

Charlie looked back at him, pausing for a split second before he answered. "Yeah. I'm okay." Silence descended, and he looked down - he seemed to be struggling with some unnamed emotion - and then up at Don. Don stared back at him, and at the same time they said, "I'm sorry."

Don glanced down and shook his head, and Charlie pressed on. "I'm sorry – I didn't realize what an issue that paperwork would be. I knew _I_ might get in trouble for it, but I never dreamed they'd try to take it out on you. I guess I never realized how seriously they took it."

Don smiled wanly. "There's nothing like the U.S. government when it comes to paperwork and bureaucracy. You didn't need to take the letter, Charlie. I've got two in my file already."

"So, you didn't need another one," Charlie reasoned. "It doesn't matter so much with me. If they want me, they'll call, whether or not there's a letter in my file."

Don put an arm around him. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I was kind of an ass about it."

"Kind of?" said Charlie, but he grinned, and Don pulled him toward him and ruffled his hair, as Charlie tried to push his hand away.

Don released his grip with grin of his own, and it softened a little as he looked at his brother. "Really - how are you feeling?"

Charlie shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, but his heart was singing. Wow, he'd been tired of arguing. "Okay. I got soup and toast today – I think Dad's warming me up for a real meal."

"How's your foot?"

"All right. Throbbing a little," Charlie admitted. He'd needed ten stitches in it, and it was aching fiercely.

Don frowned slightly. "Maybe Wednesday is too soon to go back. Megan suggested that you talk to someone, and I think she has the right idea."

Charlie shook his head, but the kitchen door opened before he could speak and Alan stepped out, his face creased with a grin to see his sons sitting side by side, in an apparent truce. "Donnie!" he exclaimed, beaming. "Just in time – dinner's ready."

Alan had outdone himself; the roast was meltingly tender, the gravy full of flavor; the mashed potatoes creamy and rich. After they'd filled themselves to the bursting point, they retired to the family room again. Alan clicked on a news channel, which was giving an update on the fire. "Hmm, look at that," he said. "The Santa Ana winds are finally dying down. They're expecting a little rain, too. Ought to help out the firefighters a bit."

Don shot a glance at Charlie, wondering if the mention of the fires would disturb him, but Charlie's eyes were at half-mast, and Don realized he probably hadn't even heard Alan. He looked sleepy after his first real meal in days, and Don grinned to himself at the sight of his brother, nodding comfortably. After the dread-filled previous days, the simple act of being together felt better than Don could have imagined. He'd planned to talk to Charlie about his decision to end his brother's consulting activities, but he knew Charlie probably wouldn't take that well, and he hated to ruin the evening.

Just thinking about it was enough to put a blight on his own mood, so he kept it to himself. There would be plenty of opportunity to tell him later. Once Charlie got busy with school again, he probably wouldn't even mind. And if he did care, he'd get over it. Eventually. It was for the best, Don told himself, trying to push down the sad, odd little feeling of disappointment in the bottom of his heart.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

A few days later, David sat quietly, watching his SAC. Don looked tired; the stress was eating at him. There had been another meth-related death on Monday night, a high school boy, who was an athlete and the son of a well-to-do family. The press had field day with it, and played up the rumor of a string of meth labs in the area. That wasn't new – they'd run the same story a month ago. What_ was_ new was the fact that public perception of this was heightening. The FBI had been working on this case for weeks – where were the results? Wright and the mayor had been breathing down Don's neck, calling twice a day for updates, and they had none.

It was Thursday morning, and they were gathered in the conference room. Colby had just finished going over the investigation so far. They'd turned over every rock even remotely related to the Morans' businesses – looked at every record, interviewed employees, acquaintances. At one of the Moran's car dealerships, David and Colby had been accosted by Dillon Moran himself. The man had been furious, and ordered them off the property. On top of all that, they hadn't found anything.

"There's nothing, Don," Colby said. "Not a shred of anything suspicious. It's almost too clean."

"We need to keep trying."

Colby exchanged a glance with Megan, and she spoke quietly. "Don, we've looked at everything. There's got to be someone else other than the Morans. Charlie was under a lot of stress at the time, and he was in another room. Maybe he heard Tommy wrong, or maybe Tommy was talking about someone else entirely. Whatever the case might have been, it's apparently not Dillon Moran, and we've ruled out Sean. He's a doper, not mentally capable, and besides, his financial situation is pretty pathetic. He lives on charity from Dillon. We've got to let go of that lead, and try something else."

Don's voice was stubborn. "What about the list of contacts from Sean?"

David spoke up. "Nothing there. None of them panned out – and even if there was a legitimate link, I'd bet Sean would know enough to not include the name."

Don's cell phone rang, and he pulled it from his pocket as he asked, "So where does that leave us?" He held up his hand as he saw the number, and walked out of the room with the phone to his ear. "Eppes. Yes, sir."

They looked at each other silently. None of them had an answer for his question anyway.

Don stepped out and walked to his desk, wincing a little as Jason Walsh's angry voice grated in his ear.

"_What in the hell are you doing there, Eppes? You've got nothing better to do there than to harass a prominent businessman?_"

"I don't know what you mean," Don replied, although he knew full well whom Walsh was talking about.

"_Don't play stupid. Or maybe you don't have to play_." Walsh's voice was brimming with fury. "_I'm talking about Dillon Moran. Do you have evidence to tie him to the meth labs, or not?"_

Don's jaw tightened and he turned away from his desk, away from the conference room to hide the expression on his face. As he did, he saw Charlie step off the elevator, glance at him, and then at his team, visible through the glass window of the conference room. His brother gave him a small wave and walked over to the conference room, with the quick eager stride that said he was there for a purpose. Don's brows knit; and he watched Charlie uneasily as his brother started a conversation with Colby. He hadn't had a chance to tell him yet that he was no longer on the consulting payroll. Well, that wasn't quite true. He'd had his chances, but had kept putting it off.

He watched them talk, and tried to keep his voice even as he answered Walsh's question. "Nothing so far."

"_Then you need to lay off, immediately. Moran's threatening a harassment lawsuit, and frankly, I don't blame him. If you've started some goddamn witch hunt against the Morans because of what happened to your brother, you'd better think twice_."

"No sir," Don said. He was seething, and he knew his voice was tight, but he kept it civil. "We were just discussing that this morning. We recognize there is no evidence there, and we need to pursue other directions."

"_You'd better hold to that. If I hear another peep out of Dillon Moran, I'm opening another investigation, and this time, you will get suspension_."

The line disconnected, and Don snapped his phone shut furiously. The last thing he needed was that pompous ass sticking his nose into investigations. He strode toward the conference room, the residual anger from the conversation making his voice abrupt. "Charlie, what are you doing here?"

Charlie looked up with a bit of surprise at the tone, but it failed to wipe off the eager expression on his face. "I've been thinking, I know you guys have looked through the Morans' financial data without finding anything, but I could do a more in depth analysis for you by pulling all of the data together and running it through an algorithm to look for patterns -,"

Don grabbed him by the arm and spoke to his team. "Excuse us for a minute."

He propelled Charlie out into the outer office. "No, we don't need any help."

Charlie looked at him with a puzzled expression. "That's not what Colby just said. He said you were at a dead end; and he'd get me the data -,"

"Charlie, no," Don said firmly. He hadn't wanted to tell him like this, but Charlie was unwittingly bringing the issue to a head.

Charlie's face brightened. "It's the waiver thing, isn't it?" He thrust a folder proudly at Don. "I found out I can sign a blanket waiver to cover my access for a year at a time. It includes field work..."

"Charlie."

"…so we won't have to fill one out each time I get a case -,"

"Charlie!"

Charlie's excited flow of words finally stopped, and he looked at Don. Several agents were staring at them, and Don pulled Charlie over to the elevators, more out of range. He didn't know how to soften the blow, so he just said it. "Charlie, you're not consulting here anymore."

Charlie's face went blank for a moment; then he tried vainly to recover by pasting a vague smile over the bewilderment on his face. "I'm not – what?"

Don felt a stab of sympathy as he saw Charlie's expression, and the look of misery reflected in his own face. "Charlie, I've been thinking about this for a while, and I don't think it's such a good idea anymore. I didn't want to tell you like this, but you're not giving me a choice. It's not that you haven't been a great help – you have – it's just not worth the risk."

Charlie looked stricken. "But I understand the field access requirement now – I found a way to fix it by filling out the form -,"

Don shook his head. "Charlie, I'm not sure I would _want_ you to have field access on every case. You haven't been trained as an agent, you don't need to be out there -,"

Charlie grabbed the paper from the file, and tore it into two pieces with a flourish. "Okay, then I won't. I'll just work from the office. I can start on the Moran stuff today."

"No, Charlie, we're off that. The Morans have been cleared, we need to move on-,"

"But they're involved," Charlie interrupted him, frustration in his voice. "I heard Tommy. Look, I'll just take the data-,"

Don's own frustration was rising, and he spoke sharply. "No, Charlie, you won't. Listen to yourself – this is exactly what I'm talking about. You do not follow orders – at least not when I give them. That's why you can't do this anymore, not on the Moran case, not on any cases. You can consult all you want for other agencies, even the FBI – just not for this office – do you understand?"

Charlie stared at him, gaping. "No," he said finally, "I don't understand. Look Don, I can fix this, I promise…"

Don shook his head, regretfully, but firmly, and he hit the elevator button. "Charlie, don't push it. You just got back to school, concentrate on that. Look, we'll talk about this later, okay?"

Charlie stared back at him as the elevator doors opened. Don had expected anger or frustration, but instead all he saw was disbelief, and a deep desolation in Charlie's eyes. Damn, this was hard. He watched, feeling like an executioner, as Charlie turned slowly, and shuffled onto the elevator, still limping slightly, and just stood there, his shoulders drooping, facing the opposite wall as the doors closed.

Don stood motionless for a moment, remembering the first case they'd worked on together. Charlie had snooped into some files Don had brought home, digging into them in spite of Don's protestations. He should have seen then that Charlie wouldn't be able to follow orders from his brother, then and so many times since. He'd put up with it for four years because the benefits had seemed to outweigh the frustrations – on both a work and a personal level. Actually, the benefits _had_ outweighed the frustrations, but they didn't outweigh the risks – the risk that one day, Charlie would choose not to obey the rules, and that choice could cost him his life. The recent kidnapping and the attack on Charlie during the Parks case had brought that home with undeniable clarity. Don knew this was the right thing to do. In his heart though, there was an echo of the desolation he'd just seen in his brother's eyes.

He sighed and turned back toward the room where his team was still waiting. He realized he should tell them about his decision, but somehow, it seemed like much too difficult a prospect right now. He'd do it later, when the time was right. He straightened his shoulders and headed for the conference room.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie stepped from the elevator onto the parking deck as if in a daze, his mind spinning. What had just happened? Surely, Don didn't mean this. He blinked, realizing that he was just standing there, that he still had his ID in his hand – he supposed he should have turned it in at the desk.

He paused and stared at it now. Before, it had merely been a prop, a necessary but inconsequential piece of life, like car keys. But it was so much more – a key to another life – the entry to an inner sanctum where he was no longer allowed. That piece of his existence had just been cut from him, with surgical precision, and he'd been left afloat. Drifting aimlessly, his purpose in life suddenly gone. He took a deep, shaky breath, and walked toward his car.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End, Santa Ana Wind, Part I - Tommy


End file.
